


Darkness Round the Sun

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Companionship - Freeform, Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Castiel (Supernatural), Croatoan vibes, Doctor Dean Winchester, End of the World, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, I Am Legend if it took a hard right into romance-novel territory, Last people on Earth, Lonely Dean Winchester, Loss, Love, M/M, Medical Advances gone wrong, Medical Experimentation, Monsters, Mutated virus, New York City, No Angst Between Dean and Cas, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sad Dean Winchester, Science Fiction, Scientist Dean Winchester, Smart Dean Winchester, Solitude, Survivor Colony, Touch-Starved Castiel (Supernatural), Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, at the, because of what they've lived through, explicit gay sex, extinction event, finding hope again, injuries, suicidal thoughts related to isolation and loss, switch Dean/Cas, the dog lives, viruses and cures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Sometimes, Dean wishes he’d met Castiel before. Back when the world was full and alive instead of empty, and darkness was nothing to fear. But then, if he had, would Dean have even looked at him twice? He had Lisa and Ben in those days, a career, and a whole planet full of possibilities spread before them.No, Dean Winchester had to lose everything before meeting Castiel could mean anything.Not that it really matters. There’s no going back now.Or, the apocalyptic AU where Dean is fighting a lonely battle to develop a cure for the virus that made him the last man on Earth—until suddenly, he's not. Dean’s old life ends the day Castiel shows up and turns his world upside down, giving him a reason to live and not just survive.
Relationships: (background), (former), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester
Comments: 296
Kudos: 394
Collections: SPN Media Big Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I've been hoarding this fic forever?!  
> And now I'm posting a virus-extinction-event fic during a global pandemic, I swear to Chuck I did not plan this and tbh, I would have written something else if I'd known.  
> But I didn't, so. I hope you enjoy that this was my complete subversion of "I Am Legend," where the plotlines are actually closed and things make sense, and Dean and Cas get their happily ever after. Despite the subject matter, there's a LOT of hope and optimism in this thing (after the sad setup), so if you're looking for a light at the end of the tunnel, this could still be a good read for you.  
> Just, you know, ignore the whole "world went to shit and millions died first" thing. 
> 
> I did mention that I didn't plan this?!? Yes?! I'm so sorry. 
> 
> ANYwho, I was lucky enough to be paired with [Bees](https://bees0are0awesome.tumblr.com/), who made some AMAZING art that is embedded in the story below. I have been admiring Bees work for many bangs now and was super excited for this opportunity!! Please check out Bees' [Art Masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805214) and give her all the love. Thank you so much, friend, you were a total pleasure to work with and an MBB hero.
> 
> Beta/editing thanks to [coinofstone](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com) [Olive](https://opal-galaxies33.tumblr.com/), and Bees. :)
> 
> Thank you to the MBB mods: Mal, jscribbles and Sunny, you guys ran an awesome challenge and we love you.

_In the darkness 'round the sun,_

_there's light behind your eyes._

_When you've lost the will to run,_

_you can feel it start to shine._

_When the rain falls down so hard_

_and you don't know where to start_

_drowning in the sun_

Before the virus, really, before he was _Dr. Dean Winchester,_ back when the world was simple and thriving, full of life and color and billions of people to interact with, Dean never had a problem making new friends. He never gave a second thought to hitting on both men and women without the slightest trace of hesitation. That’s how he landed Lisa, one of the most attractive ( _and bendy)_ women he’d ever met, all confident charm and an _I deserve it_ attitude. 

Back then, Lisa had quickly fallen for Dean’s tenacity, his smooth ability to win over just about anyone in his path. From Lisa’s cranky, skeptical sister, to the salesman who sold Dean his 1967 Impala, to the ancient, tightwad principal at Lisa’s son Ben’s school, there was no situation Dean couldn’t smooth over and twist to his favor. Even in the last days, the ones where Dean was hardly home because he was busy _trying to save the world,_ Dean’s smile and his charismatic way with words were perpetually known around the lab and eventually, the country, for their suave ability to sweep in and charm the pants off of anyone who needed it. 

And yet, _even still_. Even if Dean _had_ still been that person and not a hollow shell of the man he once was before the virus took everything, somehow, Dean can’t imagine he would have been prepared for Castiel. 

Castiel, who pulled him from the literal grip of monsters with unhinged jaws ready to swallow him whole, who lit up his world when Dean had been very sure there was only darkness left. Half-conscious and bleeding like a sieve, Dean had been deliriously _positive_ he was catching his first glimpse of Heaven when Castiel arrived. That the beautiful man framed from behind by bright, celestial light was an angel, taking Dean’s hand to help him cross over. But of course, that wasn’t the case, and Dean can only figure that the world isn’t quite done beating him over the head just yet.

“Your address!” The man is yelling at him and Dean has no idea why. His head rests heavily on a glass window as what’s left of the world flies by in a blur on the other side. Heaven shouldn’t be so goddamn _loud._ “Where do you live, _hey,_ where do you _live?”_

The bleeding wound on Dean’s head throbs angrily and clouds his vision, threatening to drag him under. “Eleven Washington Square,” he mumbles, after another rough shake from his rescuer. “They don’t know where I live, don’t let them track us. We need to stay out until dawn.” Dean knows that part is important, manages to slur it out half-heartedly only seconds before passing out completely. 

Alright, so their first moments together weren’t exactly a meet-cute from a rom-com. 

But Castiel changed everything. 

He made Dean want to live. Made him _determined_ to live, and not just survive. 

Sometimes, Dean wishes he’d met Castiel _before._ Back when the world was full and alive instead of empty, and darkness was nothing to fear. But then, if he had, would Dean have even looked at him twice? He had Lisa and Ben in those days, a career, and a whole planet full of possibilities spread before them. 

No, Dean Winchester had to lose everything before meeting Castiel could mean anything. 

Not that it really matters. There’s no going back now.

***


	2. Chapter 2

_November, 2016_

_“Welcome back to NBC News, we have a very special guest with us here in the studio this morning. The world of medicine has seen its share of miracle cures, from the polio vaccine to heart transplants. But all past achievements may pale in comparison to the work of Dr. Alice Krippin. Thank you for joining us this morning._

_“Not at all.”_

_“So, Dr. Krippin, give it to me in a nutshell.”_

_“Well, the premise is quite simple. Take something designed by nature and reprogram it to make it work for the body rather than against it.”_

_“We're talking about a virus?”_

_“Yes. In this case, the measles virus, which has been engineered at a genetic level to be helpful rather than harmful.”_

_“Um, I’m not…”_

_“I find the best way to describe it is if you can imagine your body as a highway, and you picture the virus as a very fast car being driven by a very bad man. Imagine the damage that car could cause. But then if you replace that man with a cop… the picture changes. And that's essentially what we've done.”_

_“Now, how many people have you treated so far?”_

_“Well, we've had ten thousand and nine clinical trials in humans so far.”_

_“And how many are cancer-free?”_

_“Ten thousand and nine.”_

_“So you have actually cured cancer?”_

_“Yes, yes. Yes, we have.”_

_July, 2019_

Before, the _one_ reliable thing a person could count on in New York City was _noise._ Cars passing, taxis honking, subways rumbling underfoot. There were always people yelling across the street to friends, vendors hollering about their knockoff purses or various foods for sale, the hiss of braking busses and the low-level hum of electricity surging through to power it all. The insistent, buzzing drone of noise in the city was nothing if not constant. A constant that Dean certainly took for granted, never realizing how comforting, how _reassuring_ it was to have the pulsing proof of human existence in his ears until it was gone. 

Now, all those vehicles known for fighting to clog the streets are rusted out and lumped together at the edges. They’re empty and useless husks of plastic and metal, worthless to Dean except as a potential source of recovered goods and siphoned gas, for the times when he needs such things. The lines of traffic perpetually weaving their way across Manhattan have long been replaced by incongruent vegetation, greenery that cracks the cement and pushes its way through—the idea of “road maintenance” an almost laughably distant memory. 

And most notably, it is silent. 

Not _completely_ silent, of course, even in the daytime when the sun is out. Often, there are birds chirping. Occasionally, there are other animals, things that have made their way into the city from elsewhere, despite the limited access. And there are the surviving holdovers from the Central Park Zoo; Dean knows for a fact that there’s a family of lions living in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. He’s reasonably certain the smallest cub was born after the virus mutated and the pandemic exploded, and that should give him hope, even in the smallest way.

It doesn’t, though. Dean Winchester’s pretty long past _hope_ at this point. 

His existence as the only human being left alive in the entirety of New York City has taken its toll. 

But the lions, if nothing else, are a potential food source, so there is that. Unless something else gets to them first, that is. That thought is pretty depressing, so Dean doesn’t dwell on it.

And why should he? It’s a beautiful day in the city. It’s temperate for the middle of the summer, maybe seventy-five degrees. The sun is shining, Dean’s got another round of potential cures in the animal testing phase, and he’s out for a leisurely drive with his best friend. As they speed down Seventh Ave in the Impala, windows down and hair blowing in the warm wind, Dean turns to his companion and sees him on high alert, face pushed all the way out the window so that his hair and ears blow straight back.

“Whaddaya got, Sammy? You hear something?” 

The one-hundred pound German Shepherd whines and paws at the inside of the car door just as a herd of deer burst from around the corner of Penn Station, effectively cutting Dean off before rocketing the other way down Seventh like the devil himself is chasing them out of Hell. Dean whoops as he pulls a u-turn, overcorrecting his steering wildly in order to avoid careening into a building. When he’s solid, he reaches over to grab his rifle and prop it up out his own window for use. 

“Atta boy, Sammy,” he says with a grin and a pat to the dog’s head. Sam sits up a little straighter, proud. 

They follow the herd down yet another deserted road, passing faded billboards and torn posters that boldly claim, “God Still Loves Us!” Tanks barricade side streets but Dean knows each road that is inaccessible by car at this point, and even when the majority of deer turn down one, he simply cuts down the next and heads them off again. He’s had enough practice doing this by now, and because of that, Dean’s able to keep the car flying straight while he sights the herd with his gun. 

Unfortunately, the unpredictable nature of this new form of urban jungle gets the best of him time and time again. The deer dodge and jump around cars and other debris, galloping down into the subway and back out again, and despite firing, Dean comes away from the hunt empty-handed. Out-smarted and out-maneuvered, he’s finally forced to slam on the brakes and watch sadly as the herd lopes off between abandoned vehicles lining a gridlocked alley. 

Disappointed with the outcome, Sam whines and Dean scratches behind his ears reassuringly. “‘S’okay, Sammy. Next time,” he promises. 

Despite his suspicions that the deer are long gone, Dean takes a spin through Times Square anyway. The grass that grows in the medians there is as high as a savannah these days, and wild animals tend to favor it. He gets lucky, stumbles upon one of the deer after all, just in time to see that fucking lion shoot out from nowhere and steal his dinner. _So much for venison and jerky._ Dean briefly considers taking out the lion and hauling them _both_ back, but the lioness and the kid saunter out from the shadows _and_ the watch on his wrist starts beeping.

Looking around, Dean realizes that the afternoon has gotten away from him. The light is dim and the shadows on the ground are long. There’s no time to do anything now but head home. With a soft sigh, Dean leans back against the building behind him, ducking to the side when a peeling missing person’s poster gets stuck to his hair. It asks for information on someone named Ryn, one of thousands just like it hung all around the city, names and faces that Dean knows never had a chance at coming home. Reluctantly, Dean drops his rifle and creeps back out of the shadows, away from where the lion family is settling in for dinner. 

17:20, Dean’s watch reads.

“Let’s go, Sam,” he says quietly but firmly, and Sam dutifully turns and follows him to the car. 

***

_Washington Square_

The Washington Square Arch all lit up at night has forever been one of Dean’s favorite sights. If he’s being honest, the direct view of it from his living room window is what ultimately sold him on buying the house he shared with Lisa and Ben in Greenwich Village. These days, while the Arch appears exactly the same (not even particularly overgrown at the base, Dean makes sure of that), he only gets to see it in the daylight. Not that it would be illuminated at night anymore, anyway, of course. Not unless he activates his exterior security systems, and if that’s happening, admiring the Arch is going to be pretty low on his to-do list.

This evening, Dean sizes it up from across the street as he unloads the Impala. Weapons and a duffle full of food along with various items of interest he’d recovered earlier in the day—plus a new DVD from the store—get slung over his shoulder. He notes the vines creeping up and around the left support leg of the Arch, makes a mental note to cut them down this weekend. Dean’s got more than enough spare time these days to take care of the few things left that bring him pleasure, or at least fleeting moments of nostalgic happiness. Maybe that’s ridiculous, but he’s long past caring about appearances. It’s not as if anyone’s around to judge him. 

He’s alone. He’s always going to be alone. 

Unless he can figure out this goddamn cure.

Dean’s watch beeps again, startling him into motion. The sun is dipping down further, but there’s still a good hour and a half of daylight left, so Dean doesn’t go into lockdown mode just yet. Having the windows closed and barred tight always makes him feel more alone and isolated than usual, so he puts it off for as long as he feels is safe. 

Upon reaching his front door and booting Sam through it, Dean takes one of the gallon jugs he refilled that morning before heading out and eyes its contents. Satisfied the amount is sufficient, he dumps the remainder of the liquid inside out onto the concrete steps he just climbed. Recoiling from the pungent odor, Dean sweeps his hand as he pours, ensuring that everywhere he stepped gets doused. Scent killer is just one of the ways he’s kept the Darkseekers off of his (and Sam’s) trail for this long, but no one can argue its efficacy. The smell detours just about anything and leaves behind nothing. Dean’s pretty proud of it, created the concoction himself, and frequently wishes he had someone to brag about it to. One little spritz and it’s as if he was never there. Amazing what a little vinegar, piss (for the ammonia), and baking soda can accomplish.

Once inside the house, Dean kicks off his shoes and goes about his evening routine. He unloads his weapons and stores both them and the scent killer bottle inside the cabinet that holds all of his “excursion” paraphernalia. Treats, toys, and supplies for Sam. Guns, knives, and assorted other tactical protection gear for him, plus ropes, notebooks for tracking, and a crap ton of keys for all the vehicles he’s amassed—at least twenty. The Impala is still his Baby, but it’s not always practical for apocalypse-living purposes. 

Satisfied with his supply levels, Dean tidies the cabinet swiftly and then closes it up, heading from the hallway into the kitchen to start dinner. 

On his way, he leans down to flip the switches on the three electric generators lined up side by side in the downstairs hallway. He notes that two of them are running low on power, adds taking them down to one of the solar charging stations across the park to his running mental list for tomorrow. His living conditions aren’t necessarily luxurious, but the generators provide enough power to give the house electricity and water. While he doesn’t run them all the time, a several-hour boost will give his rarely-opened freezer the juice to stay cold enough to keep preserved the few things he finds to put in it. Vegetables, a pack of bacon he’s been saving for the right moment. A few bottles of alcohol. 

_When Sam’s cured,_ he thinks distractedly, mind involuntarily sinking into the memory of hot, salty bacon, fresh out of the frying pan and covered in still-popping grease. _Soon,_ he reassures himself. _Soon I’ll bring Sammy back, and then we’ll celebrate._ Until then, the bacon stays buried in the depths of the freezer. As for dinner tonight, Dean settles on pasta, pulling out a pot and setting some filtered water on the stove to heat while he peruses his dry stores. 

His kitchen these days is barely recognizable from what it was, now stocked floor to ceiling using every available inch of cabinet and shelf space for edible supplies. While he tries to go out and forage at least a little bit every day, Dean’s also well-aware that anything could happen, leaving him trapped inside this house for any length of time. Storms are the biggest concern. Any time the sun isn’t out translates to open season, the UV-sensitive Darkseekers free to roam and hunt wherever they please. Heading outside with a storm on the horizon—be it snow or thunder—would be a novice mistake, and Dean didn’t survive this long by not using common sense. 

Pulling a box of rigatoni, a few cans of mixed vegetables, and some jarred tomato sauce down off of their respective stacks, Dean detours into the living room to flip on the TV as he makes his way back to the stove. The set resumes playing a recorded news program from six or seven years ago, from a time before Krippin Virus was even a blip on anyone’s radar. The anchors are merrily chatting about a record snowfall in downtown Manhattan, and the fact that it’s the better part of eighty degrees outside today should at _least_ make Dean blink, but it doesn’t. It’s easier to pretend, it’s always easier to pretend. The cheerful human voices in the background as he finishes up dinner fill the empty space in a way nothing else can, and Dean’s _fine._

 _It’s all temporary,_ he tells himself. _Just a little longer, just until I figure out the cure._

As he opens the powered-up fridge, Dean barely even notices the tattered _TIME_ magazine that flutters with the movement of the freezer door. It’s tacked to the front with one of those letter magnets Ben used to like to play with ages ago, toddler toys he and Lisa had never bothered throwing away. Dean wonders if she was holding onto the idea of having another someday, the way he was. His face on the magazine cover mocks him, so confident and sure he’d turn this all around before anyone _really_ got hurt. 

_SAVIOR?_

The red letters printed across his suited chest used to hurt to read, now they just make him sigh. “Add it to the list,” he mutters, turning away and placing a bowl down on the floor for Sam. “Eat your vegetables,” he commands. “Don’t just push them around. You’re gonna sit down here all night.” 

Sam’s never paid any mind to threats. He’s too much like the real Sam in that way. 

After dinner, Dean brings Sam up to the bathroom on the second floor, like he always does. Turning on the hot water heater, the generator, and the water storage tank he’s installed right inside the door to the room, Dean runs a bath, soaping Sam up thoroughly from ears to tail. 

While scent killer sprayed on the front steps and at the windows edges does the lion’s share of masking their little safe space, washing is just as important. Dean’s not entirely certain _how_ good the Darkseekers’ senses of smell are, but he’s seen them pick up on mere droplets of blood from blocks away. Keeping both Sam’s and his own body scrubbed clean seems like the very least he should be doing. 

During the bath Sam sits patiently, doesn’t whine or attempt to escape the tub; he’s used to the routine by now. The shutters on the windows are still open and Dean takes notice that the sunlight has turned a rich, dark gold as it fades behind the taller buildings of the Manhattan skyline. Most of the city is bathed in shadow by now, the approaching dusk ominous instead of relaxing, the way it used to feel for Dean at the end of a long day. 

He distracts himself from the looming darkness by focusing on Sam. “You’re gonna eat twice as many vegetables tomorrow night, deal?” As he scrubs, music plays softly in the background, the same way it always does as the two of them wade through their nightly routine. Dean bargains with Sam as he rinses the soap from his fur, affectionately scratching behind his ears as he goes. “Gotta eat your veggies, Sammy.” He hums and sings along to the song playing, muttering the words softly under his breath. 

_“‘Cause every little thing, is gonna be alright.”_

When Dean’s watch beeps again, the final warning before it goes silent for the evening, Dean doesn’t jump into action. He sits placidly on the side of the tub, staring blankly off into space for a prolonged moment. More and more recently, he’s found himself thinking about what would happen if he just gave up. If he stopped going through the motions. If he stopped pretending that _anything_ he does anymore matters even in the slightest. 

For a second, _just one second,_ Dean lets himself feel the relief that would come with giving up.

Then Sam barks, and Dean snaps back to the present with a jolt. “C’mon, Sammy,” he says tiredly, swinging his legs out of the tub as Sam shakes water messily off of his coat, flinging droplets in every goddamn direction. Dean towels himself off and then sets about closing up the house.

Lockdown is a meticulous process that requires focus and consistency, every time. The windows all get tight metal shutters, closed over them from the inside and barred. Dean hits them one by one, working from the upstairs down. He dabs scent killer on the inside of the window frames before he closes them up, just in case. He feels a little sad as the last rays of sun disappear behind the completely light-blocking shutters, but there’s no choice here. 

After barricading the front and back doors, Dean stands in his foyer and takes it all in. He debates on whether to go down to the lab and do some work, but he’s never fond of doing so at night, since Sam isn’t allowed down there. He’s not sure if he’d hear something going wrong or Sam becoming agitated over a disturbance upstairs, so he opts to skip it. The lab will be there in the morning. It always is.

Moving to turn the living room light on and perhaps read a book for a while, Dean stops when Sam’s ears prick up and a quiet growl rumbles from the back of his throat.

“Shh,” Dean soothes, patting Sam’s head as he simultaneously withdraws his hand from the lamp and moves it to the back of his waistband, where he keeps his pistol tucked. It’s just then that he hears it, an animalistic cry filtering in from the outside, far too close for Dean’s liking. 

“C’mon,” he tells Sam, grabbing the rifle stashed by the weapons chest before making his way as quietly as possible up the stairs to the second floor. Feeling shaken, he and Sam get into the still-damp bathtub, Dean curling around Sam’s soft, warm body protectively, the gun still clutched at his side. The growling and snarling get progressively louder and Dean fights against the urge to jump from the tub and engage all of the houses’ defense mechanisms and failsafes, just because. Logically, he knows that if the Darkseekers had _actually_ found them they’d already be clawing their way inside, not wasting their energy screaming in the streets. 

Even still, Dean shakes with a combination of fear and sadness, eyes burning with unshed tears as he’s doused repeatedly with stark reminders of what his life has come to. The smooth iron of the old clawfoot tub is cool on his cheek as Sam’s fur dampens in front of his face, the water in his eyes finally spilling over. Eventually, with Sam’s unwavering presence providing comfort at his side, Dean manages to block out the inhuman screeching beyond their walls and to fall asleep. 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bees' art in here!

_December, 2016_

The caravan of black SUVs boasting flashing lights and blaring sirens screeches to a stop in the middle of the street outside Dean’s townhouse next to Washington Square Park. Brusquely, Dean hops out and leaves the SUV running as he hurries towards his house, unwilling to waste time with either parking properly or futzing with keys. The red from his mounted roof light casts an eerie glow on both the houses and the people milling around as it flashes, the sight making Dean’s stomach churn with anxious anticipation. 

He tugs at the collar of his green military dress button-down reflexively as he moves away from the car, wishing more than anything to be anywhere but here, doing _anything_ but this. He should be coming home to a hot dinner right now, trading stories from the day with Ben, unwinding with a beer and a movie with Lisa. The look on her face as she and Ben step out from the iron gate marking the edge of the sidewalk in front of their home says that she couldn’t agree more. 

“What’s happening?” Lisa’s tone is pressed and urgent but Dean doesn’t get a chance to try and reassure her, headed off before he can speak by one of his fellow officers, a good friend of Dean’s named Benny Lafitte. Ironically, Benny’s the same person who interrupted his earlier call to Lisa that preceded them coming here, the one where Dean told her to pack essentials for her and Ben and meet him outside in fifteen minutes.

“Thirty minutes, Colonel,” Benny advises him pointedly, and Dean can’t remember the last time Benny addressed him using formal rank. This was a guy with whom he flipped burgers in their backyards, played poker and smoked cigars with on Friday nights. Dean was Benny’s son’s _godfather,_ for Pete's sake _._ They’re basically family.

In retrospect, it seems likely that it’s in that exact moment when Dean realizes just how much the world is starting to fall apart, and how very little control he has over what’s coming. 

But right then, Dean still has a mission—people to protect and a vital job to do. So instead of joking with Benny, he just nods and turns towards the waiting government vehicles. Benny stays with him, opening the rear door of the SUV so that Dean can bundle Ben inside, ignoring the rapid-fire questions the seven-year-old is blasting him with. When Ben is settled with their new German Shepherd puppy on his lap, Dean jumps back in behind the driver’s seat, and Lisa thankfully hops into the passenger seat beside him without protest.

“Dean where are we going?” Ben whines from the backseat of the car, and Dean gives him a distracted grunt of a reply about how him and his mom are going to see Lisa’s sister, hoping it’ll pacify the kid.

“Thirty minutes to what?” Lisa asks insistently, disregarding her safety belt as she turns in her seat to face him. “Dean, what did Benny mean?”

Dean’s fingers flex and clench around the steering wheel as the SUV caravan takes off with lights and sirens blaring once again. Steadily avoiding Lisa’s questioning gaze, Dean drives, following almost perilously close behind the lead car in front of them. “They’re sealing off the Island.” 

“Sealing off the island? This island?” 

“But I don’t want to go to Aunt Sarah’s,” Ben protests, and this time, Dean ignores him outright. He focuses his attention on Lisa instead.

“Did you bring all the money like I told you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“How much?”

“Six hundred dollars. Dean, you said _you’re_ going, not _we’re_ going.”

There’s no _time_ for Lisa’s questions and Dean fights back frustration at her persistence. How does he explain to her that there’s no fucking _time_ for all of this? All he can do is redirect the conversation back to the things he needs to say and hope that she lets it go. “Alright, when you get across the river I need you to get to the ATM. Withdraw as much cash as you can. Take Sarah’s car, go upstate to the farm. Bring enough food for say, two weeks.”

For once, Lisa’s silent, though her eyes bore into the side of his face as the gravity of their situation apparently starts to sink in. “Jesus, Dean,” she finally murmurs, breathy and low. “Did it jump? Is it airborne?” 

“But we only go to Aunt Sarah’s in the _summer,”_ Ben complains, thankfully and yet irritatingly oblivious. “It’s _Christmas_ , what about my presents?”

“It may be,” Dean replies reluctantly, wincing at Lisa’s sharp intake of breath. _This is his fault. This is all happening because Dean wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t smart enough, didn’t think far enough ahead and now the better part of Manhattan is going to either die or become something out of a Stephen King book._

Before Lisa can say anything else, the distinctive sound of the President of the United States’ voice takes over the car radio. On any other day, Dean wouldn’t care one iota for politics or listening to politicians, but today isn’t any other day, and he already knows what’s coming. In the back seat, Ben is still whining and complaining, and Dean and Lisa seemingly snap at the same time.

“Ben, can it!”

“Ben, knock it off!” 

Mercifully, though not without a _major_ pout and two angrily crossed arms, Ben does, and Dean’s able to turn his attention back to the crackling speakers. He raises the volume so that the President’s voice fills up the entire car. His tone is conspicuously grave.

_“Make no mistake, my fellow Americans, this is not just about the survival of our nation, but of every other nation on this planet. And so, it is with great sadness but even greater resolve, that tonight I have signed an order initiating a military quarantine of New York City. May God be with—”_

Lisa punches the button to turn off the radio without so much as waiting for the President’s speech to conclude. She blinks across the seat at Dean with a mixture of fear and disbelief written all over her face and his mouth sets into a firm line. Upon glancing her way, Dean notices that a strand of hair framing the side of Lisa’s face is gray-tinged. He wonders when that happened, realizing abruptly that he’s hardly even looked at her in months, barely paid any attention to how she’s been doing at all. He copes with an extreme wave of guilt coursing through his veins. _You did this._

“The window is still open,” Dean says, in what he hopes is a reassuring and confident voice, though like hell if that matches what he feels. “If we find something in a week, or two weeks, it can reverse the spread. I can still fix this, Lis.”

When Lisa speaks again, her voice is small and pleading and it breaks Dean’s heart because he already knows what she’s going to say, and likewise, what his answer is going to be. “Please… You can do the same thing outside the city.”

Dean shakes his head. “This is ground zero, Lis. This is _my_ site, we talked about this.”

The gray tendril of hair shakes as Lisa whips her head around angrily, smacking a hand against the console between them. “What are you _doing_ , Dean? For how long?” She’s furious, and Dean can’t—he just can’t. There’s no time right now for Lisa’s feelings and emotions, as cold and callous as that may be. This is Dean’s fight, and he’s staying here to see it through, one way or another.

“What do you mean, what am I—what am I _doing?_ I’m not gonna let this happen,” he insists, though he’s not even sure why he’s bothering. Lisa isn’t going to change her mind and neither is he. But Dean can’t help wanting to defend his decision, wanting to defend staying behind. It’s not a rejection of Lisa and Ben, it’s his job, his _duty._ “No matter _how_ long it takes. I should have known, Lisa, this is on me.”

 _“Let—_ this isn’t up to you, _you_ couldn’t have predicted—” Lisa is cut off by her own scream as a man pops up out of nowhere next to the temporarily-stopped vehicle and bashes his face against the window. Blood spatters dramatically across the glass and the guy falls to the ground as the caravan moves on and Dean speeds away. 

“Shit,” he swears, glancing into the rearview mirror in time to see Ben bawling into Hunter's scruffy little neck. This is a nightmare; a living, breathing nightmare, and it’s all Dean’s fault. The _least_ he can do is stay and try to work it out.

_***_

_July, 2019_

Dean wakes up sweating in his bed, his hand tucked underneath his cheek, watch alarm beeping in his ear. He still has terrifying dreams about the night everything went to shit at least three times a week, if he’s lucky. They used to come every night but the more time passes, the more numb he feels, and apparently, that extends to his dreams. Or maybe his brain is just exhausted. Dean already knows this is all his fault, it’s not like he needs the subconscious reminders. 

And yet, that’s what his brain gives him; reminders, constant and unrelenting. That the world is in ruins, that his brother is _one of them, a monster,_ that Dean himself is all alone and miserable. He certainly doesn’t appreciate the additional hell of reliving it all even when he’s unconscious, not that he doesn’t deserve it.

 _Maybe I did die,_ Dean muses as he picks up the pistol he placed on his bedside table the night before. _Maybe I died and I’m in Hell, and this is my eternal punishment. Wouldn’t even be fucking surprising._

He grimaces when his knees creek and his back pops as he sits up and stretches. At least he didn’t have to spend the whole damn night in the tub. 

***

Dean reverses the lockdown on the house slowly, starting as he always does with cracking one of the upstairs windows to ensure that the sun is actually up and shining. It’s bright as hell outside today which is, while expected, still a relief to see. 

Once all of the windows are open, the door is unlocked, and the TV is on (today featuring perky newscasters discussing Christmas Eve plans), Dean launches into his morning workout routine. Pullups, crunches, five miles on the treadmill while Sam does the same trek on a matching machine alongside him. It’s not Dean’s favorite activity, he’s always been more for exercising by _doing,_ but nothing is the same anymore. The world has gone to shit and staying in shape isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity. Last thing Dean needs is to end up some Darkseeker’s meal all because he was too lazy to get his cardio in. 

Post-workout, he eats and feeds Sam, showers, and gets ready to head down into the basement. On his way, Dean stops to look at the pictures lining the shelves in his living room, the usual two drawing his eye. The first is a picture of him, Lisa, and Ben they’d had taken professionally the fall before Krippin Virus mutated. Lisa had it in her head that family photos needed to be taken professionally to count, and that resulted in Dean shelling out more money than he’s willing to admit to be posed awkwardly in the middle of Central Park like a bunch of crazed tourists. He smiles a little at the memory before shifting his gaze to the framed image of him and his brother Sam at Sam’s law school graduation in California. 

It’s impossible for Dean _not_ to contemplate the fact that if he hadn’t pushed so hard for Sam to move to New York City, maybe his brother wouldn’t be in the position he’s in now. Maybe he would have been able to evacuate California in time, with Dean’s warnings and three thousand miles between him and the virus’ first hot spot giving him a head start. _More things you failed to protect,_ Dean’s brain reminds him, not that he needs it. His fingers drift over the glass covering Sam’s face.

“‘M gonna bring you back, Sammy,” he says, with more determination than he feels. “I’m gonna bring you all back.” 

***

The pre-entry area of Dean’s basement lab is outfitted with UV lights in the stairwell and a surgical scrub sink outside the door. The sink’s purpose is obvious, but the lights are two-fold. One, they test the skin of any Darkseeker he might bring down for human trials to confirm the presence of Krippin Virus and two, they provide _some_ measure of protection for Dean while he’s down here. 

Should his house ever be discovered and broken into, the lab is undoubtedly the safest place for Dean and Sam to retreat and hide. Aside from the UV, there’s a pane of hurricane-grade shatterproof glass sealing off the entire back section of the room. It can be locked from the inside and outside, serve as an isolation tank, operate as a secure detainment area for specimens, or in an emergency, even act as a bunker of sorts.

Dean spent the first months after the military quarantine broke down building this place. The virus had run rampant, decimating the remaining population of Manhattan, the complex in which his lab was located abandoned completely. His priority at the time had been creating a space to salvage and protect the work he’d done so far, the progress he had (and hadn’t) made on finding a cure before the world went to shit. 

Apocalyptic landscape aside, it came as a surprise to Dean that his former lab was so easy to loot. It wasn’t the access he was surprised about but the fact that no one—not the military _or_ the government—had seen fit to even bother trying to recover what was left behind there. That might have been understandable considering the circumstances, but the lab _did_ hold the remnants of what might be the world's last—the world’s _only_ —chance for survival. 

But giving up wasn’t something Dean ever considered for himself, and now he’s got a state-of-the-art lab equivalent to what the US government used to provide him underneath his own home. Ensuring that even if he _is_ stuck inside due to storms or what have you, he can still reach his work, still protect it. 

Flipping on one of the computers, Dean wastes no time in getting down to business. The built-in camera comes up immediately and Dean presses record, clearing his throat before speaking. “This is Dr. Dean Winchester. September fifth, twenty-nineteen. GA-series Serum 391, animal trials, streaming video.” 

Stepping away from the computer, Dean moves over to the side of the room. He reaches up to pull a dark cloth off of a series of clear rat cages, exposing them to the light. As expected, the animals go ballistic. Their red, beady eyes blow wide and their sharp, mutated teeth stay bared as they throw themselves relentlessly into the glass. Dean shakes his head in disappointment, but he’s not exactly surprised. 

Serum 391 is exactly that; the three hundred and ninety first potential antidote he’s been confident enough to take to animal trials. That isn’t even counting the ones that got tossed out in any earlier stage of testing. Unfortunately, Serum 391’s not looking any more promising than the three hundred and ninety that came before it. He sighs and records his observations anyway. 

“GA-series results appear typical. Compounds one, three, four, eight, nine, ten, eleven, fourteen, sixteen, and eighteen did not kill the virus. Compounds two, five, seven, twelve, thirteen, fifteen, and seventeen all killed the host.” 

As he walks the length of the cages, Dean scours the rats with a meticulously critical eye. He’s observing closely for any changes, _anything_ that might suggest he’s even remotely on to something, even something small. To his own surprise, he finds it when he gets to one of the last test subjects, in a glass case towards the bottom of the shelving units. 

“Hold on a second,” Dean says out loud for the benefit of the recording, bending over to squint skeptically at the rat in cage number six. The thing is puttering around in its little cell, skin less pale and eyes not nearly as red as when Dean had dropped it in there yesterday. The response isn’t perfect, the rat not _quite_ back to normal, but the little dude isn’t flinging itself suicidally into the glass, either. 

“Compound six appears to be showing decreased aggression response. Partial pigmentation return. Slight pupil constriction. GA-series 391, compound six, next candidate for human trials. Hang in there number six.” He taps on the glass in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. 

It’s something. Dean’s certainly had worse days. 

***

The street outside his house is bright and quiet when Dean and Sam load up for the day’s outing. Dean brings extra supplies, the generators that need recharging, and his equipment to rig a trap, just in case he stumbles upon an opportunity. Because of his potential plans, they take the Ford Expedition, the same one Dean had been driving the night he came to pick up Lisa and Ben to get them off the Island. He carefully doesn’t dwell too much on that memory as he checks the modified containment cage built into the second-row seating, the place where Ben’s booster seat used to go. 

The car’s changed in other ways too since that time, its former flashing red and blues replaced with UV spotlights and a giant roof rack, push bars added to the front bumper, and numerous other little modifications that would have had no place in the _before_ world, but are basically essential now. 

And Dean’s golf clubs. The Expedition holds those, too. 

As they set off towards their usual first stop of the day, Dean puts the windows down and Sam shoves his face into the wind happily, tongue out and lagging. The breeze is warm, the air is clear, and if Dean didn’t know better, he thinks he could _almost_ be happy today. He wishes he could bottle the feeling and save it to open again after the lights go out. 

The media store is just as Dean left it yesterday morning. He tells Sam to stay and grabs the small pile of items he’s brought with him to return. Posed just outside the front door are two mannequins, and Dean greets them with a smile as he keys open the lock. “What are you doing here so early?” he quips. “Nice sweatshirt there, Frank. See you guys inside.” 

The interior of the store features similar sights, with various mannequins posed up and down the aisles, going through the motions of perusing the store’s wares. Dean nods respectfully at a family of them before heading to the _“G”_ section of the alphabetically-organized DVDs. He slots the ones in his hand back into place and takes the next two immediately after them. As he does, he darts a glance to his left, where a smartly-dressed female mannequin with short, dark hair is standing. 

For a moment, Dean contemplates talking to her, losing his nerve at the last second and turning on his heel to head for the check-out counter instead. There’s a mannequin sitting behind there, too. “Morning, Hank,” Dean says. “I’m halfway through the G’s.” He hesitates, darting a brief look back towards the section he just came from. “So, uh… who… who’s the new chick?” 

It’s silent, of course, and Dean falters for a moment when Hank doesn’t answer before picking up his movies and smiling feebly. “Never mind. Alright, well, catch you tomorrow morning, buddy,” he says before heading back out and locking the door behind him. As he leaves, Dean spares a quick backward glance for the lifelike female mannequin standing on the other side of the store. 

***

“What am I supposed to say?” Dean complains to Sam as they unload their gear in preparation for exploring yet another deserted apartment building in search of supplies. “‘Hello, wanna see some infected rats?’” Sam just stares up at him from his seat on the sidewalk, resting casually in between the shoots of weeds that sprout innocuously from the cracked pavement. “Okay, tomorrow,” Dean relents when Sam cocks his head to the left. “You win. I'm gonna say hello tomorrow.” 

Before they proceed inside, Dean double checks his weapons: thigh holder and pistol, _check._ Boot knife, hip holster, _check._ Rifle slung over one shoulder, empty duffle over the other? Good to go. “C’mon, Sammy,” he says, and then when Sam follows obediently, “Good boy.” 

As they approach the entrance to the lobby, Dean pulls out the map of the area that he carries in order to keep track of which buildings he’s hit so far. His own note on this building indicates they left off on the fourth floor, apartment 423. Tucking the paper back inside the back pocket of his jeans, Dean readies his rifle and opens the door for Sam. He stays on high alert as they clear the lobby, the stairwells, and the fourth floor hallways just in case, but he doesn’t anticipate running into any major issues. They’ve already searched floors one through three without incident, and he doesn’t expect that to change today. 

Technically, there could be Darkseekers hiding anywhere. Entering any dark room or shadowed building is a risk, but in Dean’s experience they tend to live and sleep in clusters, mostly big ones that he’s since dubbed “hives.” And if there was a hive here, he and Sam would definitely know by now. 

Regardless, Dean kicks down the door to apartment 423 swiftly and clears the interior carefully, just like he always does. _That_ is how he and Sam have survived this long; routine, caution, and a metric fuckton of pure, unadulterated luck. The first two things do matter, though. While Dean sweeps his gun from room to room, Sam does his part, sniffing around ahead of Dean and returning to his side when there’s nothing (and no one) to be found. 

With a grimace, Dean takes note of the long-decayed remains occupying one of the bedrooms. Whoever those people were, they died long enough ago that there were still response teams coming out to quarantine people’s homes. The biohazard symbol-marked plastic draped over the half of the room containing a bed is a dead giveaway, and Dean closes the door without bothering to check it out. 

Wandering into the main living room, Dean pulls down the makeshift flat-sheet curtains hung wall-to-wall across the industrial-style windows, instantly brightening up the space. Not that the residents of this place are coming back, but it can’t hurt to make as many spaces in the city as un-Darkseeker friendly as possible. 

When that’s done, he pokes through the mountains of trash and possessions strewn throughout both the living area and the kitchen. Whoever died in that bedroom likely infected their housemate(s), both the mess and the attempts to block the light demonstrate the inevitable fallout as that person changed. It’s not an unusual state for Dean to find an apartment in, not by any means.

In the kitchen he gets lucky, walking away with an electric lantern and some canned goods he hasn’t seen in a while. Red salmon, spam. Baby corn. He and Sam will be eating as good as they ever have tonight. 

The rest of the apartments on the fourth floor go the same way. Nothing overly exciting, but no trouble either. With each building they finish, every empty hallway and apartment they clear, Dean feels a heavy mix of both relief and extreme disappointment. After all, these trips aren’t just salvage missions, despite appearances (and necessity). They’re the only way Dean has of attempting to track down his missing brother. 

Back out under the heat of the noonday sun, Dean loads up the Expedition with his spoils and prepares to head towards their next scheduled stop. A hand braced against the tailgate, he pauses before closing it, swallowing rough against the unbidden lump lodged in his throat. It’s been over a year since he’s had any inkling of where Sam might be, longer since he’s actually seen him. But flesh-eating monster or not, he’s still Dean’s brother and the only family he’s got left. 

Some days, Dean struggles not to throw himself to the wolves, to just stand in the middle of the street after dark and see if Sam comes to him. Even knowing full well what would happen if he did that, lately it’s getting harder and harder for Dean to care. The loneliness, the bitter taste his failures have left in the back of his mouth, just finding the will to go on from one day to the next is a struggle. 

The only thing that stops him from packing it in, that _only_ thing that keeps Dean going, is the plain fact that _he_ is the only shot Sam has left. Like it or not, Dean is the only person in the world who might be able to bring not just him, but the entire human race back from the edge of extinction. 

So until that day comes, the day when he finally produces a working cure, Dean will keep looking. And if he _does_ happen to find Sam, he’ll trap him, tranq his ass, and then drag him back to the basement. After that, it’s just a matter of keeping him sedated, first in line for the cure. And he’s _so close._

 _Compound six,_ he reminds himself. _Compound six showed promise. It’s just a matter of time, one of them is gonna work._

_It’s just a matter of time._

He slams the trunk closed.

***

Charging the generators is next on his list. Dean decides to kill two birds with one stone and hit the solar charging station that also houses his radio equipment. Early on, he’d managed to rig up one of the natural power stations to continuously supply a basic radio setup that would then transmit a simple message on a loop. 

Even today, long after Dean has lost all hope that anyone is actually out there, that message continuously broadcasts over every AM station, reaching out to any potential survivors inside the transmission radius. While the actual equipment is covered with weighted, upside down bins and tarps to protect it from the elements and is basically self-sustaining, Dean still checks in on it regularly. 

That’s probably not necessary since unless Manhattan goes several weeks without sun, the power-storing solar panels should have no problem rising to the demands of the simple system. And if that happens, the radio and its message will be the least of Dean’s worries. Still, he continues to ensure that it’s operating the way it should be, at least once a week. 

At first, he did so to make sure the equipment was all still working, since no one ever responded or showed up to the place he said he’d be waiting. Now, Dean’s honestly not sure why he bothers. Routine, maybe. For all intents and purposes, he’s the last fucking man on earth. 

As he and Sam drive, rounding a corner where an entire building is covered in biohazard plastic, Dean flips on the radio and listens in. _Yep, still working just fine._

 _“My name is Dean Winchester,”_ the radio declares, sounding a lot more confident and full of life than Dean’s felt in years. _“I am a survivor living in New York City. I am broadcasting on all AM frequencies. I will be at the South Street Seaport every day at midday, when the sun is highest in the sky. If you are out there, if anyone is out there, I can provide food. I can provide shelter. I can provide security. If there’s anybody out there, anybody, please. You are not alone.”_

***


	4. Chapter 4

The Seaport, at least, boasts the sounds of the waves slapping gently against the side of the pier. It’s a welcome change from the constant silence of the depths of the city or the birds chirping in Times Square. Dean relaxes in the lawn chair he leaves near the water for this exact purpose, tossing a tennis ball for Sam to fetch and watching as he darts happily around the ruins of the historic district. In front of him, the crumbling remains of the Brooklyn Bridge loom overheard, its middle smashed out like God himself reached down and put a fist through it. 

The East River keeps flowing around the remaining pillars like nothing ever happened. Nature doesn’t care about any of this, and the world goes on.

No one shows up today in response to Dean’s message. No one ever does.

***

It’s not all doom and gloom, Dean’s life these days. To blow off steam, he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve. Golfing off of the tail of the sleek, black Lockheed A12 fighter jet displayed atop the flight deck of the _Intrepid_ is hardly the worst way he’s ever passed the time. Before, back when the _Intrepid_ was “The Sea, Air, and Space Museum,” you couldn’t even touch the planes, and now the A12 is one of Dean’s favorite places to hang out. 

In the glow of the late afternoon summer sun, New York City’s skyline spreads out before him as Dean’s _“Fore!”_ echoes and reverberates off of the buildings and through the empty streets. Hell’s Kitchen never looked as good as it does from up here, and Sam clearly agrees, snoring obnoxiously with his head drooping off the far end of the A12’s tail. As Dean drives another ball hard enough that it smashes a distant window, it occurs to him that this is probably as happy as he and Sam might ever be again. 

He’s less perturbed by that revelation than usual, and unsure how he feels about his newfound resignation to this lonely life. 

Once he’s out of balls, Dean wakes Sam up to share a tuna sandwich packed from home. True to his promise from the night before, he makes Sam eat a handful of carrots first. They’re fresh, pulled from the soil of the small garden Dean’s managed to cultivate on the Highline. Gardening is definitely _not_ his forte, and he’s pretty sure those fucking deer have been eating his tomatoes, but it’s nice to have something that didn’t come from a can. Not even for the first time today, Dean wishes Sam—the real Sam, his brother—was here. That yuppie, salad-loving freak would do a much better job than him of trying to grow them food to eat at the end of the world, of that Dean is sure.

All the more reason to bring him back as soon as possible. 

The dog startles and hops to attention as Dean is packing up his supplies, his keen ears pricking and his whole body tensed on high alert. Familiar with that response, Dean grabs his rifle and peers through the scope in the direction Sam is focused. Down on the ground, weaving through the gridlocked, rusted out traffic on 12th Ave, are a handful of deer and Dean can’t help but think his luck is finally picking up. 

“Good boy,” he praises Sam, rubbing at the spot behind the dog’s ears that makes his back paw thump like crazy. “C’mon, let’s go.” 

***

By the time they get down to the ground and ditch the majority of Dean’s gear by the car, most of the deer have meandered down the road and out of sight. _That’s alright,_ Dean thinks. _Nothing wrong with a little old-fashioned tracking._

He and Sam creep through the iron jungle of useless vehicles and refuse while Dean quietly sights the area up ahead through his rifle. As a pair, they make their way down 12th Avenue and then cut across 30th Street, following 10th down into the obscenely gentrified area of the former Meatpacking District. Even now, abandoned and half-destroyed, most of the buildings here look like yuppie frou-frou places Dean wouldn't be caught dead in. 

After passing three entire blocks of nothing but pretentious art galleries, Dean’s about ready to call this mission a bust. And that’s when he sees it. 

A flash movement up ahead, just the barest hint of a white tail disappearing behind the edge of a truck, and that—that _one_ tiny, harmless flicker of action—is all it takes for things to go impossibly wrong. 

Because sometimes, just for a moment, Dean forgets that one second is _all_ it takes in this new world. One _split_ -second, even, one tiny misstep, and everything changes. A fist full of good intentions can bring the world to its knees. 

Dean, of all people, should never forget that. But Sam—Sam is a dog, and he doesn’t understand.

Sam is also a good boy. A people-pleasing dog through and through, who wants nothing more than to make his human proud. It’s a weird time for Dean to remember that Sam’s name wasn’t always _Sam,_ no, once upon a time _Sam_ was Hunter, for that very reason. 

In fact, Ben had named him such when he heard Dean explaining to his mom that German Shepherds _aren’t_ hunters, they’re guard dogs, herders. Indignant on their new puppy’s behalf, Ben had petulantly declared that _his_ doggy could be “anything he wanted to be, as long as he believes in himself and we believe in him too!” Unable to argue with that, their new family member had been crowned “Hunter” from that day forward. 

Thing is, both the dog and Dean had to adapt after the world ended, and as it turned out, _Hunter_ was pretty good at his namesake task after all. It was some strange combination of discovering that and the whole thing hitting entirely close to home that resulted in the shift. The memories of _before_ and the reminder of who both he and _Hunter_ were supposed to be all stirred up and mixed together with a heavy dose of loneliness just hurt Dean too much to bear. That, and the fact that he was perpetually lacking any other humans to talk to, made Dean start to slip. 

At first, he caught himself. “S—” is all he’d get out before stopping and forcing himself to say, “Hunter.” But after a while, when it kept happening, Dean ran out of reasons to care. It wasn’t as if the real Sammy was around to protest. Maybe that was unfair to the human Sam and it was probably definitely unfair to the dog, but Dean was exhausted. And terribly lonely. And for whatever reason, having a tiny piece of Sam back, even if it was just his name, felt _good._

And to be fair, (new) _Sam_ didn’t seem to mind at all, donning the new name like a secondhand jacket that was already broken in perfectly. And so Sam he became. But what Dean didn’t realize was _quite_ how fucked up that really was, _or_ exactly how much _more_ messed up he was going to be if anything _happened_ to the damn dog. Not until right this very second. 

It happens too fast for Dean to react and stop him. Like the good dog he is, Sam catches a glimpse of that white tail flicking out of sight and takes off like a shot. He _knows_ Dean wants this kill, and he’s determined to get it for him. Normally, that would be a good thing, a _great_ thing, and at first it seems like it might be. Dean sprints along behind his best friend and they run so fast he actually catches sight of the deer. It sees Sam and spooks, which only makes Sam run harder, faster. 

During the next five seconds, everything slows down to an infinite crawl as Sam makes a critical error. In his gung-ho pursuit of their prey, Sam chases the deer straight under the Highline and through the open, mawing entrance to a dark, abandoned building. 

“ _NO!”_ Dean screams at the top of his lungs. “ _SAAAM! NO!_ Come back!"But screaming is no use, Sam’s already been swallowed by the ominous black just inside the missing double doors. “Fuck,” Dean gasps, clapping his hands to his head, still holding his rifle. He looks around frantically, for a miracle, for _anything,_ before reluctantly swallowing his fear, shouldering his gun, and following his dog into the building. 

“Sam,” he stage-whispers as he steps over the line from sunlight to darkness. “Sam, come _on_.” Flicking the switch for the light mounted to the side of his AR-15 on, Dean creeps forward, keeping his back to the wall for at least _some_ measure of protection. He covers the light when he rounds corners, just in case, but in reality, he’s a rabbit walking into the lion’s den and he knows it. Against his every instinct screaming out to flee, Dean keeps moving, the only light besides his own being the door to the outside that’s quickly getting smaller at his back. And still, Dean makes his way further into the building’s depths. 

His own breathing is harsh and distracting in his ears, and Dean makes a concerted effort to quiet it, to push down his fear and anxiety lest he give himself away.

Darkseekers do sleep, and it’s the equivalent of their four AM right now, so Dean just hopes no one’s feeling like an early bird today. Not when he (or worse, Sam) is playing the part of the worm. There’s a sudden screech from the other side of the room and Dean rounds on it with his gun at the ready, but there’s nothing there, just shifting shadows. Unnerved, Dean covers his light again as he edges onward.

“I gotta go, Sam,” he calls out, half-whispering and half-panicked. “ _Sam!_ ”

Releasing the hand wrapped over the light, Dean notes with trepidation a bloody path marking the floor. A second look has him worried, noting animal tracks too muddled for him to discern whether they’re from dog or deer. He swallows hard and wills down the rising bile in his throat just in time to register the sounds of wet, nasty chewing coming from the blind side of yet another corner. When he rounds it, prepared to shoot, all he finds are the remains of the deer they’d been chasing, half-eaten in a pile at the bottom of some stairs. Stepping over the carcass carefully, Dean ascends, going on nothing but the pure, driven desire to save his last remaining friend, no matter the cost. 

At the top, he sweeps the light over more empty warehouse space, startling when the beam lands on an enormous crowd of infected all clustered together. They’re asleep on their feet, humming and vibrating in that strange way that they do while resting, and Dean needs to get out of here _yesterday_. 

_This place is a fucking hive. Sam ran into a fucking hive. Of all the goddamn luck we don’t have,_ Dean thinks, near hysterics but willing himself calm. 

Stifling the gasp that rises involuntarily in his throat, he tries to back up quietly, knowing the only reason he’s still alive right now is because the Darkseekers _are_ apparently sleeping. Problem is, that could change at any time, with no warning, and especially with fresh blood in the building. 

Terrified, Dean’s just about to back his way down the stairs when he registers a familiar noise coming from somewhere to his right. The snuffling sound draws his attention to the opposite side of the space from where the hive is clustered, over to some scattered, battered furniture and a flash of brown fur. 

“ _Sam,"_ Dean hisses, quickly making his way over to where Sam is cowering beneath what used to be someone’s very nice office desk. “We gotta go, Sam,” Dean whispers urgently, reaching out to get fingers under a very shaken Sam’s collar. 

Out of nowhere, an infected man bursts wildly out of the darkness, hurtling towards Dean’s face with his mouth already open and his sharp, rotting teeth bared. The screech the thing makes is like nails on a chalkboard, and Dean fires in its direction without considering the consequences. The infected goes down, but just like that, the rest of the hive roars awake and swarms into action.

“ _Sam, run!_ We gotta go, we gotta get out!” 

The stairs are out of the question now, being that they’re located in between Dean and the advancing, _hungry_ mob. Out of both options and time, he takes a deep breath and runs as fast and hard as he can towards the floor to ceiling glass windows set into the exterior wall at the far end of the room, praying that Sam follows but unable to look back and make sure. 

The infected are _fast,_ and several are already clamoring on top of Dean as he bursts through the untempered glass and goes flying through the air, landing sharply on the pavement below with both feet before collapsing onto his side on the unforgiving surface. The fall was only a story high, but Dean winces at the sharp sting the impact sends up his shins and into his hips and lower back. 

Once outside in the sun, the infected that tried to jump him screech miserably and burn horribly in the bright light, convulsing grotesquely before ultimately going silent and still. Sam, smart fucker that he is, made it out just behind Dean, seemingly no worse for the wear. He pads over to lick at Dean’s face as Dean tries valiantly to recover his breath. Relieved, he pats wearily at the dog’s head as he lifts his own to look up and survey the height of the fall. 

_Only twelve feet or so,_ he notes. _Could definitely have been worse._ Though if it came to that, Dean’s already sure he’d rather jump from the top floor of the Empire State Building than be the main course for a hive of Darkseekers’ next meal. 

“Gotta be more careful,” he scolds Sam as he pushes his way back to sitting. Sam’s unruffled by Dean giving him the death glare, probably because Dean caves and wraps his arms around his furry neck almost immediately. Feeling Sam alive and well grounds Dean, has him taking comfort in his heartbeat, in the way his chest still rises and falls, the same as it always has. “Y’can’t leave me,” Dean mumbles into Sam’s warm fur. “You just can’t, okay?”

Sam’s little stunt earns him an afternoon of being benched in the car while Dean carries out his next task. While that whole mess of a near-miss certainly tired Dean out, and the landing from the second-story jump aggravated his already bad knee, Dean just can’t make himself pass up the opportunity to trap a Darkseeker. Not when he’s got a promising potential cure ready and waiting for testing. This is a _hive,_ it’s a guaranteed recovery with very little risk to him or Sam, so long as he stays in the light. Dean tells Sam that, too. 

He thinks Sam looks pissed to be left behind, but Dean just doesn’t possess the emotional spoons to worry about him taking off again, not after what they just went through. “And anyway,” Dean says as he shuts the door to the car and hoists his gear up over his shoulder. He leans in through the front window so that Sam can still hear him. “You can still get infected, I can’t.” He clears his throat and hesitates. “So, uh, look. If I’m not back by dark, just go. You hear me?” 

Sam tilts his head to the side the way he always does when he isn’t interested in doing whatever Dean tells him he needs to. “I mean it,” Dean says sternly, waggling a finger at Sam pointedly before turning away and heading back to where they were when Sam first disappeared inside the building. 

Once the adrenaline had worn off and he’d more or less recovered his sanity, Dean went back to check out the exterior of the hive. He noticed right away that there was a car upside down and half-hanging over the side of the Highline, right above where Sam ran underneath. Meaning, just above where the open door to the hive’s home base looms dark and menacing. 

He returns there now, rigs up a simple pulley system and runs it _just_ inside the doorway of the building. As the piece de resistance, Dean leaves a vial of his own blood in the middle of the trap, pouring scent killer just outside the door so that any Darkseekers who come after the one he’s snatching won’t be able to trace him using it. When he’s finished with the set-up, Dean retreats to where he’s rigged the lever for the pulley and stands atop an abandoned car to activate it. Upon yanking the chain, a bear trap snaps shut and breaks the vial, just out of Dean’s sightline in the dark. 

The tempting smell of his blood doesn't take long to lure in an unsuspecting monster. From where he stands, Dean hears the trap trigger and the weighted pulley system do its job. A body comes flying out the door, kicking and screeching underneath the blanket it's wrapped in as Dean’s makeshift trap hauls it out of the dark and leaves it suspended and wriggling from the overpass. The upside-down car he’d used as a counter-weight crashes to the ground beside them. 

As soon as his catch is in reach, Dean smashes the struggling bundle where he assumes its head should be with the butt of his rifle until it goes quiet. A syringe of sedation medication is in his pocket, at the ready to keep the thing unconscious for the entirety of their ride home. 

Safety first.

But before he can pull back the blanket and inject the medication, Dean’s attention is drawn back to the darkness just inside the building by a painful, gut-wrenching howl. He looks up to see an infected man appear at the doorway, snarling and furious. The light from the afternoon sun burns the skin on its face, making it sizzle and smoke even as it persists in standing there. 

It’s behavior Dean’s _never_ seen from a Darkseeker before, and it’d be fascinating and worth noting on its own, except Dean can’t focus on _any_ of that right now.

Because the Darkseeker in the doorway to the hive is _Sam._

He’s missing hair and his skin and eyes have definitely changed but that’s _Sam,_ the real Sam, Dean would know his brother anywhere. Rooted to the spot, Dean can only watch as an angry Sam fights the effects of the light for as long as possible, trying in vain to get to Dean before giving up and retreating back into the dark with a growl that seems to reverberate off of the Highline above. The smell of burning skin and even some residual smoke still floats through the air as Dean regains his senses and remembers he still has a job to do.

 _Sam,_ he thinks, in awe, in relief. He didn’t manage to trap him, but he knows where he is now. It’s a fucking start, it’s something. Dean hurries to get home; this changes everything. Once he has the cure, it’s just a matter of time until he can give it to Sam, now that he knows where he is. 

_Sam,_ he thinks again. _Hang on, buddy. I’m coming for you._

***

“Okay. Subject is female, likely twenty-two to twenty-five years of age. Dilaudid push only sedates effectively at six times the human dose. Core temperature is one-oh-six Fahrenheit, pulse 200 beats per minute, respirations elevated. PAO2 is three hundred percent of normal.” 

Dean leans over the newly-obtained infected strapped securely to his exam table. She’s quiet, docile, eyes closed like she’s sleeping, and restrained using the soft, padded cuffs Mount Sinai’s emergency room used to keep on hand for psych patients in crisis. Dean actually has no idea if they’re strong enough to hold on their own. He relies on the narcotic medication given by continuous IV drip to keep his subjects far enough under that he won’t have to find out. 

Everything from this point forward is a guessing game. Dean’s original military lab had never even reached the point of human trials before the entire government fell apart. Tugging the infected’s eyelids open one at a time, he sweeps a penlight across, observing for response. “Pupils fully dilated, non-reactive to light,” he says for the benefit of the recording before moving on to re-check her UV response with a handheld light. The infected responded appropriately when she came through the lights at the edge of the basement, of course, and to the sunlight outside, but Dean’s a stickler for having everything documented properly. 

“Extreme reaction to UV exposure. Symptoms and tissue samples confirm subject is infected with KV. Vaccine test GA-series 391, compound six; commencing human trials.” 

Without hesitation, Dean picks up a readied syringe and unloads its contents into the infected’s left thigh. The effects are almost immediate and Dean narrates them out loud as he sees them, brow furrowed critically as his eyes scan the body in front of him for changes. Half of him does its best to forget that he’s still dealing with a human (or something that _could_ be a human again), while half of him is completely unable to think about anything else.

“Respirations slowing. Pulse 190, core temperature 105... 104, and decreasing. We may have something here.” 

But before Dean can really get excited, the infected surges up, straining at her bindings and screaming at the top of her lungs, sedation be damned. She fights and flails and then collapses back down, dead. Full cardiac arrest; no breathing, no pulse. Having seen this exact reaction many times before, Dean doesn’t even need to glance up at the flatline on the monitor, just sighs and calmly injects a second syringe into the infected’s thigh. He watches dejectedly as the heart monitor picks up again, returning swiftly to its pre-compound six rate and rhythm as the infected takes a deep, gasping breath. 

“GA series 391, compound six… ineffective on humans.”

Blankly dropping the second syringe onto a nearby tray, Dean scrubs a hand across his face. A swell of rage bubbles up inside his chest and explodes its way out, surprising even Dean with its fury and force. He sweeps an arm across the countertop, sending beakers and test tubes and trays of equipment shattering on the floor with a crash. When he’s done breaking things, Dean doesn’t feel the least bit better, and now he has to clean up the lab. He takes a deep breath and gathers himself before speaking again, since the camera is still on and waiting for his final conclusion. 

“Test results linked to this entry saved on six redundant drives, still no cure.” He punches the “off” button for the computer a little harder than necessary before wheeling the restrained infected back behind the shatterproof glass and locking her in. 

He’s done for the night.

***

“Day one thousand and one,” Dean recites tiredly, sitting in front of his personal computer in the study upstairs, the last rays of golden sunlight streaming in through the window next to his desk. “We came in close contact with a hive today. Blood tests confirm that I remain immune to both the airborne and contact strains. Canines remain immune to airborne strain only.” 

Perceptive as ever, Sam rests his head on Dean’s thigh and whines apologetically. “Can’t go running into the dark, dummy,” Dean tells him, scratching behind his ears before turning back to the computer. “Vaccine trials continue. I'm still unable to transfer my immunity to infected hosts.” 

He pauses thoughtfully, continuing to pet Sam in a way that’s equally as much about soothing himself as it is comforting Sam. “Krippin Virus is... elegant,” he continues, smiling a little and shaking his head. “Just fishin’ in the dark. Oh, a behavioral note. An infected male—” Dean pauses here, wonders if he should include details about _who_ the infected male is, but ultimately opts not to. It’s easier to record his observations objectively, without the muddying distortions that his feelings about Sam would cloud them with. He clears his throat. “An infected male exposed himself to sunlight today. It’s possible that decreased brain function or growing scarcity of food is causing them to ignore their basic survival instincts. Social de-evolution appears complete. Typical human behavior is now entirely absent.”

Dean sits there for a while longer staring listlessly out the window, until his watch beeps and drags him back to reality. Times up, whether he’s ready or not. 

***

_December, 2016_

The line of government vehicles Dean’s fallen in behind abruptly stops moving maybe a thousand feet shy of the checkpoint. The makeshift barrier of military vehicles, chain-link fences and armed guards is severely bottlenecking the crowds attempting to access the port. Beyond the checkpoint, helicopters and boats evacuate those lucky enough to make it through the bio-scanners to freedom across the river. It’s readily apparent from the swelling numbers on the street side that more people are being held back than let go. Not that Dean can see from here, but he suspects the bridges and tunnels are similarly stoppered in an attempt to keep anyone already infected from leaving the Island. 

“Why are we stopping?” Lisa asks as he puts the SUV in park, and Dean can only shake his head, though he certainly has his suspicions, all of them grim. There’s no need to make her more upset than she already is.

Ahead of them, Benny jumps out of his own vehicle, his matching camouflage helmet already on his head and his rifle at the ready. _Jesus Christ,_ Dean thinks. He’s never seen Benny willingly put his helmet on before. There’s not much else to parse out about all that implies, but suffice it to say, Dean finds the sight terrifying. He blinks, thrust into action by Benny rapping on their vehicle’s hood, calling out so they can hear him clearly through the glass. “Bridge is closed, we’re hoofing it. Got less than ten minutes, Dean.” 

Piling out of the car, Dean doesn’t even bother to close his own door before grabbing Ben from the back. Nothing matters now, nothing but getting Ben and Lisa off this island before it’s too late. Lisa’s instantly at his side, grabbing at Hunter who Ben has clutched tight to his chest, making it hard for Dean to hold onto them both. “Baby, give me the dog,” she says gently.

But it’s Ben who nearly sends Dean into a tailspin with his next innocent, well-meaning question: “What about Uncle Sammy?” 

That _hurts,_ sends a stab of aching, terrible fear through Dean’s whole body. But there’s nothing he can do except pretend that he isn’t concerned. That _Uncle Sammy’s_ whereabouts aren’t the _other_ most important thing on his mind, but Dean has to push through it. There’s nothing he can do for Sam now. “C’mon, Ben, don’t worry about Uncle Sam. You know I’ll take care of him.” 

“They have guns!” Ben declares fearfully as they pass several rows of soldiers lining the edges of the street. He whines and burrows his face into Dean’s neck.

“It’s okay baby,” Lisa soothes, reaching up to rub her son’s back as the three of them hurry together behind Benny towards the checkpoint. Stalled and abandoned cars are everywhere and the crowd is starting to become dense as they near the actual gates and the soldiers guarding them. “They’re Army like Dean,” Lisa explains, gesturing toward the soldiers. While he can’t see Ben’s face, Dean can feel him nod acceptingly into the space beneath his chin.

Walking up to where the Army and National Guard have the end of the street completely blocked off, the scene feels surreal. Dean can’t help but look around and take it all in with growing horror, an emotion he’s rarely felt in his life up until the last few weeks. Spotlights are set up to flood the streets, so bright that once you step underneath them it’s hard to remember it’s night. The sight of the East River Bridges and the outline of Brooklyn lit up just beyond the halo, their own lights a beacon in the darkness, is a jarring reminder. 

A quick glance down the perpendicular street shows Dean that it’s equally flooded with empty vehicles as thousands of people attempt to flee. They’re all trying to beat the looming deadline that half of them are likely not even conscious of yet. They’re aware that it’s happening, but not _when._ Still, people have a knack for knowing when to get the hell out of dodge, and this is no exception.

This close to the port, helicopters circle loudly overhead while boats in the water head away and then back towards the city, ferrying those who are lucky enough to make it through the checkpoints to Brooklyn or maybe even around to New Jersey. Everywhere Dean looks people are panicking, screaming at the guards to be let through, for help, for mercy. Soldiers in tactical gear scan each person’s eyes with a handheld machine as they step forward, methodical and emotionless as anyone who fails is hauled out of the line and detained behind metal fences. 

Nearly everyone in the crowd is wearing a mask, and Dean can’t help but feel guilty since he knows they’re no use against the virus. As his little family approaches the scanners, a detained infected woman with bleeding eyes begs anyone passing to please take her baby. No one is willing to risk it.

Catching Benny’s eye, Dean doesn’t need a verbal reminder to know that time is growing short. With only minutes to spare, Dean and Ben step up to be scanned and are let through without issue, Benny right there to urge them forward as quickly as possible. Behind them, Lisa gets stopped and Dean turns just in time to see two soldiers grab her arms and start to drag her away. 

“No good,” one of them says.

“What? Wait! Dean! _DEAN!_ ” 

Shaking Benny off, Dean shoves his way back towards a hysterically screaming Lisa, still holding Ben tight to his chest. “Get your hands off of her, get off! Scan her again,” he demands loudly, but the guards pay him no mind. They continue to try and separate Lisa from the line and do everything possible to physically prevent Dean from getting close to her.

“Hey!” he yells, furious and not above throwing some punches one-handed. “I said, get your hands off of her!”

“Lieutenant, this is protocol, we can’t—”

“Stand down,” Dean growls, unapologetically in the dude’s face, despite holding Ben. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Dean Winchester and I am _ordering_ you to _scan her again_.” 

The soldiers dart glances amongst each other but after a few tense seconds, the one in charge relents and motions to the rest to get on with it. “Alright, scan her again.”

Another soldier holds up the machine to Lisa’s eyes. The light flashes and it beeps; _all clear,_ and Dean allows himself _one_ half-second to breathe again. As soon as the guards release her, he’s got Lisa’s hand in his own and he’s sweeping her forward, even before the soldier in charge can say, “All clear, move through.” 

“How long?” Dean mutters to Benny as they finally reach where he’s been waiting.

“Five minutes, brother,” Benny replies, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “We’ll make it.” Benny speaks into the radio clipped to his shoulder and a helicopter descends from where it’s been hovering over the pier. As soon as it’s touched down, Benny’s rushing them all forward. 

“Benny,” Dean says pleadingly, as Lisa and Ben climb into the helicopter and Benny moves to follow. 

“Don’t even say it, chief,” Benny replies. “I won't take my eyes off o’ them, Colonel. You got my word on it.”

Forcing back the grateful burn behind his eyes, Dean pulls Benny into a gruff embrace before turning back to his family. “Give me a hug,” he says to Ben, pulling him in tight. “You take care of your mother, you hear me? I’ll see you real soon.” When he turns to Lisa, he can see the words on the tip of her tongue and cuts her off. “Don’t ask me, Lis,” he says, cupping the side of her head and kissing her firmly.

“Sir, we’re under two minutes, we need to get them in the air,” a soldier tells Dean, pulling him by the arm to urge him to step back from the idling helicopter and its quickening blades. 

“I’m gonna make the monsters go away, okay?” Dean calls out over the noise. “And then I’ll see you.” Ben looks tearful and Lisa’s outright crying as Dean starts to move away. At the very last second, Ben shoves Hunter out of the helicopter’s side door and into Dean’s arms from where Lisa had placed the pup on his lap. 

“Hunter, you protect Dean,” Ben commands.

“No, Ben, I can't. I can't take a dog—” But the soldiers are already yanking him away and Dean’s voice is drowned out as Benny tugs the helicopter door shut. The last thing he hears is Ben calling out over the sound of the rotors speeding up.

“Dean, protect Hunter!”

“Sir, we gotta go!”

Which is how, on the worst day of his life, Dean comes to be standing on a pier jutting out into the East River with Hunter in his arms. How he’s left behind as the helicopter containing almost his entire world lifts off into the air with only thirty seconds left to spare. Thirty seconds before Dean knows the real beginning of the end is about to start. 

As he watches helplessly, a formation of fighter jets come racing through the sky following parallel to the East River. When they get close enough, dual streaks of light drop ominously onto the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, exploding them right down the middle. As Dean looks on in sadness and fear for his family that still hasn’t made it to safety, the formation continues north, undoubtedly heading for the other East River crossings, in order to effectively cut off the roadways between Manhattan and all points east. 

Those big explosions are closely followed by numerous smaller ones coming from what feels like all directions, above and below ground. While Dean finds out later that those blasts represent the destruction of every other route off of the island save for the George Washington Bridge, at the time it was happening, he didn’t register the impact or the importance at all.

Because just as those explosions begin, something much worse is unraveling right before Dean’s eyes. On another pier a few hundred feet to his right, one last helicopter is still attempting to take off. Except, as it elevates a few feet off of the ground, a bunch of infected burst from behind the detention fences and rush it. 

They jump up with inhuman strength and grab onto the skids, unbalancing the aircraft and sending it spinning, careening out of control through the air. Stuck on the ground and powerless to do anything but watch, Dean clutches Hunter to his chest as the second helicopter goes spiraling wildly, on a collision course headed directly for the helicopter carrying his family and one of his best friends inside. 

“ _No! NO! Nooooo!”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean mentions that it's his birthday in this chapter, and it's definitely late summer, so, you can either HC that this AU Dean has a different birthday, or that he's completely lost his bananas and is just desperate for something happy to focus on. Mine is the latter. 
> 
> Spoiler warnings:  
> Warning in this chapter for infected dogs (these are not cute pets, they are like rabid werewolves, if you need a comparison) being shot by Dean out of necessity (it's him or them).  
> Likewise, a reminder that UNLIKE THE MOVIE, Sam the dog does NOT die (although things may look dire here for a minute, hang in there).  
> Self-harm warning: Dean also has some very self-destructive thoughts when he thinks that Sam is dead. The loneliness and loss become too much for him to bear and he puts a suicidal plan to take out himself and (his brother) Sam. He nearly succeeds, but Cas shows up at the last second and rescues him [from Hell, ooooo canon parallels omg]. 
> 
> This chapter is dark! But it is as dark as things get, and the light will start dawning by the end. :)

_Present Day_

Like always, the new day begins with Dean’s watch alarm going off. He goes through his normal routine; confirm there’s sun, open all the windows, work out, watch TV, eat breakfast, head out into the city. 

“It’s my birthday,” Dean tells Sam as they drive with the windows down, hair and fur ruffling in the wind and an uncharacteristic smile lighting up his face. “So, listen, if you’re planning a party or something, just tell me now, ‘cause I don’t like surprises. I swear I’ll act surprised.” 

Because it’s his day, and because he no longer has to search for where Sam is hiding, Dean forgoes the usual foraging for supplies and runs through his greatest relaxation hits. Being alone at the end of the world is pretty damn miserable most of the time, but there are a few activities that help a little. Golfing atop the _Intrepid,_ that’s one. Fishing in the Sackler Wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, another. Fish don’t seem to be impacted in the least by the virus, so the self-sustaining, algae-eating ones double as both entertainment _and_ a meal that doesn’t come from inside a can. 

Dean avoids the video store today, having not quite gotten up the nerve to talk to the pretty woman he saw there previously. He throws the ball for Sam in Grand Central Park instead of down by the Seaport after detouring over to pick some potatoes, tomatoes, carrots and herbs from his Highline garden. It’s the first day that he hasn’t gone down to the Port since broadcasting his message, but Dean’s about ready to give up the futile quest for survivors. 

And anyway, it’s his damn birthday. He should get to do something besides wait around uselessly for people who are never going to show up. 

The produce is worth the trip: the tomatoes are perfectly ripe and juicy and Dean finds himself actually looking forward to an awesome, fresh dinner for once. All-in-all, it’s not the worst birthday he’s ever had. 

When his watch finally beeps, signaling that it’s time to head home and start his evening routine, Dean’s actually feeling pretty cheerful. So the last anti-KV compound didn’t work perfectly, it’s still _something._ It’s still a lead. A few minor adjustments and he might even have a working cure by this time next week. Aside from that, he’s finally got a bead on Sam, he’s driving in his favorite car with his loyal dog, and he’s about to go stuff his face with good food. 

_Things could, and have been, worse._

And maybe that thought in and of itself should have been a clue, a warning, because things _never_ go right for Dean. There’s always something lurking just around the corner, waiting to squash into the ground any ounce of happiness he’s able to dig and claw and salvage from the muck. 

Driving home from the Bed, Bath, and Beyond on the Upper East Side where he’d gone to treat himself and Sam to a new pillow each, Dean’s crossing Park Ave at 40th Street when he sees it. Slamming on the breaks, Dean cuts the wheel and floors it so hard the tires squeak as he flips the car around. Normally, he wouldn’t dream of treating his Baby so carelessly, but it’s hard to focus on anything but the _thing_ he just laid eyes on. 

Racing up the Park Avenue Viaduct with Grand Central looming overhead in front of him, Dean’s cut short from his goal by a toppled streetlamp blocking the roadway. He slams the gearshift into park and gets out of the car irate and confused, leaving the driver’s side door hanging open for Sam to follow. 

_Frank,_ the mannequin that always stands outside Dean’s video store, is planted firmly in the middle of the Viaduct, right underneath the big glass windows in the center of the side of the former rail terminal. 

“How the hell did you get out here, Frank?!” Dean yells, half-panicked as he gesticulates wildly with his rifle. “If you’re real, you better tell me _right now._ ” He’s not entirely sure what he’s seeing, what’s happening here, but there ain’t another living soul for miles, maybe anywhere. And yet, Frank has _moved._

 _Is Frank alive?_ Dean wonders, feeling somewhat delirious. He rounds on the mannequin again. “Frank, I’m not fucking around! You got three seconds to tell me if you’re real. Three… two… one.” Without further hesitation, Dean sights his rifle and fires off a bunch of rounds into the mannequin’s chest, plastic and foam exploding in a violent shower in all directions.

“Dammit, Frank,” Dean murmurs when he’s done, the gun dropping to hang limply at his side as he surveys the carnage. The world is completely still around them for a minute, and then something changes, a thick charge in the air that Dean picks up on immediately, but couldn’t articulate if he tried. All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Dean’s neck starts to stand up and he’s filled with the overwhelming _surety_ that he’s being watched. Spinning around, he searches the empty windows of the nearby buildings for answers and finding none, fires into them haphazardly. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his sweaty hair in frustration. _Is he losing it? Did he move Frank here and forget about it? Is he losing time?_ Dean wracks his memory for blank spots and finding none, wonders if the Darkseekers aren’t the only ones experiencing social de-evolution. 

It’s mid-considering that he’s cracking up when Dean realizes that (what’s left of) Frank is currently laying in the middle of a puddle of water. It hasn’t rained, and there’s no duct or drainage system nearby, or any means for the water to be there at all. At least, as far as Dean can see. Overcome by curiosity and still slightly messed up from seeing Frank _here,_ he wanders closer without thinking too hard about what he’s doing. 

The second he steps into the water, Dean realizes his mistake. Unfortunately, it’s already too late, and the trap that was set for him springs. A yellow taxi, positioned halfway over the edge of the side of the Viaduct, tips and rocks, eventually sliding forward to careen nose first off of the bridge and onto the ground a story and a half below. Its weight trips the mechanism Dean’s unwittingly triggered by stepping into, and a rope hidden just beneath the water’s surface goes taut. The pulley system yanks Dean up into the air by his foot, smashing his head on the unforgiving pavement as it inverts his body over the puddle. 

Everything goes blurry and dark at the edges as Dean blinks slowly, barely awake. Blood drips lazily from the back of his head, creating oily ripples in the water beneath him. Dean watches it swirl, dizzyingly nauseous and fighting the dark swell trying hard to pull him under. 

His last conscious thought as his eyes slip closed is that this whole thing... This is _impossible._

***

The sound of his watch beeping, such a familiar and ingrained alarm to Dean by this point, brings him around. As he blinks dazedly awake, the sun slips hazily between tall buildings, lengthening the shadows and slowly drawing away the remaining patches of light. 

Down on the ground, Sam’s barking like crazy just beneath where Dean is strung up. In an attempt to get him to stop (mostly because his head is throbbing), Dean grunts miserably that he’s fine before pulling the knife he keeps in his boot out to cut himself free. It takes a few tries, what with the probable concussion still making him slow and groggy on top of the whole “swinging upside down by one leg” thing. But thankfully, after two false starts Dean finally manages to hack his way through the rope pulled tight by his own body weight. 

When he finally slices through the last strands, the rope’s snapping sends him crashing and flailing to the ground, landing with a painful “ _Oof”_ and a splash on his back in the puddle. He loses track of the knife as he falls and ends up accidentally impaling himself in the thigh, screaming out and curling in on the self-inflicted stab wound with a barely-muffled cry as more of his blood leaks and spreads into the water. 

Gasping in pain and now not only dizzy and nauseous but _hobbled_ and unable to fuckin’ _walk,_ Dean tries repeatedly to pull the knife from his flesh but finds it stubbornly ( _excruciatingly)_ lodged. 

_There’s no time for this,_ he thinks, using his arms to begin dragging himself across the pavement towards the car. It’s slow going, _too slow,_ and the sun is quickly setting, their situation becoming increasingly perilous by the minute. To top it all off, Sam’s still barking, hopping around and over Dean’s damaged body like a lunatic, completely unhelpful.

Ignoring him for the time being, Dean drags his broken self backward as fast as he can. He’s about a third of the way to his goal when his attention is suddenly drawn to the big glass window set into the side of Grand Central Station. Specifically, he finds himself squinting at the jagged hole in the bottom right-hand corner of the glass. 

_There’s something in there,_ he realizes, something moving just beyond the light’s reach. As Dean focuses on it, that’s when he starts to register the snarling. _Snarling and barking,_ he corrects himself, and despite his body’s protests, he tries to move faster. There are infected dogs in there, kept at bay only by the increasingly narrow sliver of light cutting the Viaduct in half. In precious few minutes that barrier will be gone as the sun drops beneath the skyline, and then Dean and Sam are as good as dog food. 

_This whole thing… was a trap,_ he thinks, almost hysterically. _By… an infected? How?_

The next time Dean glances over, the dogs have crept to the edge of the shadows, close enough that he can see them now. They’re bald and rabid in appearance, sharp jaws snapping and drooling and straining against leashes held by something— _someone—_ that’s still _just_ out of sight to Dean’s eyes. 

Sam’s barking is completely focused in that direction now, hyper and nervous, and he’s lingering way too far away from the car for Dean’s liking. Dean himself has only made it just over halfway there, not nearly far or fast enough. Worried that Sam is getting _way_ too invested in the presence of the infected dogs, Dean yells at him sharply. 

“Let’s go! Sam, let’s go! We gotta go home.” 

But Sam doesn’t respond at all, doesn’t stop barking, doesn’t trot over to jump inside the car and wait patiently for Dean the way he normally would. With a last few exaggerated heaves and the persistent pushing of his non-injured leg, Dean finally makes it to the side of the Impala. Unfortunately, just as he does, the last slip of sunlight disappears and with it, their stay of execution. Dean’s heart clenches in his chest as the shadows spread, completely filling the street as the dogs’ leashes are abruptly released to attack. 

The next few minutes are a blur of nails and blood and teeth. Right off the bat, Dean’s able to shoot one of the dogs in the head and thankfully, it doesn’t get back up. Another tackles him, snapping its jaws in his face as Dean fights to get leverage, to be able to aim and fire his gun without losing half of his own face in the process. He’s distracted by Sam’s growls and whines as he fights off the last infected dog somewhere to Dean’s left, more worried about Sam than himself. 

It’s impossible in that moment, with teeth bared and jaws snapping and Sam’s sad whining a terrifying soundtrack to it all, for Dean to _not_ remember that Sam is only immune to the airborne form of Krippin Virus. It makes him fight that much harder, determined to come to Sam’s aid as quickly as possible. When he finally manages to get the muzzle of his gun underneath the chin of the mutated hound he’s wrestling, Dean fires without hesitation. The hot, musty weight of the animal collapses over him immediately, but Dean doesn’t spare it a second thought. 

_He can’t._

Shoving the corpse to the side, Dean sights his gun and takes aim again, trying to get a clear shot at the dog Sam is still fighting, but Sam’s battered body keeps getting in the way. 

“ _NO!”_ Dean screams as the infected dog snaps at Sam’s neck, watching helplessly as its teeth make contact, sinking in and drawing blood. “NO! _Saaaam!”_

Thankfully, it’s only seconds later (though the stretch of time feels a lot more like years), Dean gets an opening and he takes it. Firing off one clean shot, he sends the remaining infected dog spinning and sprawling to the ground. It goes still. 

With a barely choked-off sob stuck in his throat, Dean drags himself over to where Sam lays twitching on the ground. He finds his faithful friend whining and crying, bleeding from multiple bites, including a big, angry one on his neck. 

“Sam,” Dean croaks, his voice breaking. Gritting his teeth, Dean rips the knife from his leg and doesn’t even bother to try and muffle his own pained scream. Sam whimpers next to him, distressed that Dean is hurt, even in his own increasingly dire state. What did Dean ever do to deserve someone so loyal?

“C’mon,” Dean grunts, pulling himself together and forcing his damaged, burning body back to its feet. He’ll probably never know where the bout of adrenaline that allows him to scoop up Sam and limp them both to the car comes from, but after fucking everything, he’s _not_ going to just let Sam die moaning in the street. 

He’s not going to let Sam die at _all._ They just have to get home.

***

Down in the lab, things are looking bleak. Still dizzy, weak, and in pain from almost head to toe, Dean’s barely hanging onto his last thread of his sanity, never mind his ability to work. Sam is fading fast and if Dean wants to save him, he’s got exactly one shot. Sam’s body is weak, injured from the fight. It won’t last through multiple attempts with different potential cures and reinfection, and Dean doesn’t exactly have the emotional stamina for that right now, either. 

After a short internal debate, Dean selects what he thinks is the most promising of the new strains modified from the failed compound six. He scoops Sam’s furry body up off of the counter and staggers sideways under his weight and his own bad leg, collapsing down to the floor with Sam in his arms. 

It’s more than clear that Sam is suffering, and Dean is out of time. Clutching Sam close, Dean sings softly as he does a brief, gentle exam. “‘Cause every little thing… is gonna be alright.” He half-sings, half-whispers, his eyes burning with unshed tears and his throat dry and cracking around the words. “Don’t worry…” 

With a chest full of sorrow, Dean notes that Sam’s eyes are almost completely bloodshot, his teeth are sharper than they were before, and when he drags a hand over the fur on Sam’s head, it comes away in clumps. Vision suddenly blurry, Dean realizes he’s crying and can’t stop as the low, repetitive growl that’s been coming from Sam’s throat for the past few minutes starts to escalate. 

Despite knowing that it’s coming, Dean starts when Sam twists and snaps at his face, teeth bared and no sign of recognition behind his formerly soft brown eyes. With a sob, Dean administers the sedative first, just in case. After it’s in, as Sam starts to struggle against his hold, Dean injects the newest version of the potential cure into the meat of Sam’s scruff.

For a moment, Dean actually thinks it’s going to work. Sam’s increasingly shallow and rapid breathing slows down, back to normal range. The redness in his eyes clears and he stops growling. Dean is _just_ about to take a deep breath and move Sam to an exam table when the dog seizes up and howls in his arms, a pained, horrifying sound that chills Dean straight to the bone. 

And then he’s gone. 

Just like that, Sam is still and silent in Dean’s lap, just like the infected girl when he tried compound six. 

Sam is gone.

Dean shatters. He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to destroy the lab, to burn his house to the ground, to pack it all in and call it a day. In his mind’s eye, he thinks about standing in the middle of Washington Square and screaming at the top of his lungs, “ _Bring it on!”_

Maybe that way, he can at least take out _some_ of them. Maybe he can make his death, _Sam’s_ death, Lisa and Ben’s deaths, mean something. No one else is ever going to. There’s never going to _be_ a cure. The human race isn’t going to survive this blight.

In the end, Dean doesn’t put his ill-conceived plan into action. What he does do is leave Sam on the floor in the lab with his head resting on Dean’s balled up shirt. Back when he was a puppy, Dean used to do that to keep him calm, keep him quiet at night or if he had to go down to the lab and leave him upstairs alone. He knows he’ll have to bury him eventually, but he’s unable to stomach even the idea of putting his last— _his only—_ friend into the ground right now, and anyway, it’s already night. 

By the time he limps his way upstairs, it’s full dark outside. Dean had half-assed his nighttime routine earlier, only hitting the basics before taking Sam down into the lab. At very least, he still spilled some scent killer over the front steps and in the car where the seats were stained with fluids before closing up the windows and the doors to the house. Thanks to his ingrained routines, the Darkseekers shouldn’t be able to track him more efficiently today than any other day, despite all the blood. 

But Dean isn’t careful now, the way he usually is. He leaves a few scattered lights on around the house. He doesn’t make any attempt to stay quiet as he locates a bottle of whiskey and takes it upstairs to his bedroom. 

_Come and get me, Sammy,_ Dean thinks half-hysterically (and sadly, half-hopeful). Drinking until he passes out is generally something he’s avoided in recent years for safety reasons, but none of that really feels like it matters anymore. The truth is, right now, Dean wants more than _anything_ to be numb.

He’s _failed._ He’s a failure, and if he wants to drink himself into oblivion, then that’s what he’s going to do.

When he does finally fall asleep a good half-bottle later, for once, Dean doesn’t dream.

***

It’s past noon when Dean wakes up on his own. He vaguely remembers hearing his watch beeping and hitting it until it stopped before turning over and burying his face in the pillow again. When he finally does get out of bed, he’s not in much better shape than when he got into it the night before. He skips exercising, skips eating, doesn’t even bother to shower or put on new clothes. His jeans are still caked in blood, the wound on his thigh undressed and sticking to the fabric, but Dean barely even notices. 

On some level, he knows that going outside this way is basically the same as serving himself up to the Darkseekers on a silver platter, but it all just feels… numb. Nothing matters anymore.

Really, Dean just wants to get out of the house as fast as possible and away from the memories that lurk in every corner. He can’t even _think_ about heading down to the lab right now, isn’t sure he’ll ever be up to the task. 

And so he drives. 

Dean drinks while he drives, too, because why the hell not? He never did get his birthday party and he’s pretty sure Sam was planning on surprising him with one. The city feels emptier, somehow, as ridiculous as that sounds. For over an hour, Dean just sits in his parked car in the middle of an overgrown Times Square, staring at nothing. 

For lack of anything better to do combined with sheer, unrelenting loneliness, he visits the video store. In his haste to leave the house, Dean forgot to bring with him the DVDs he’d taken home a few days prior. Fortunately, Gary’s cool about it, gives Dean permission to take whatever he wants anyway, and Dean’s grateful. 

While thumbing through the G section again, Dean notices the hot chick at the back of the store out of the corner of his eye. With everything that’s happened with Frank and Sam, he’s understandably feeling a little reluctant to reach out, but the alternative feels even more painful. Tapping the DVDs he’s chosen nervously against his palm, Dean sidles up and nods at the woman as he clears his throat.

“Promised my friend I would say hello to you today,” he says hesitantly. “Hello. Hello? Please say hello to me...” Feeling like an idiot but not completely sure why, the boundaries of reality blur in his mind and Dean can’t actually remember if these mannequins are supposed to be real or if that’s something he invented to feel less alone. His eyes fill with tears and his head spins from all the alcohol he’s had on an empty stomach. Swaying a little, Dean steadies himself and tries again. “Please. Please say hello to me.” 

Of course, there’s no answer. 

And that’s when Dean knows with absolute certainty… he’s had enough.

***

The East River looks peaceful glittering back at him underneath the full moon. It’s been almost three years since Dean was last outside at night, and he’s missed it. This feels right. If he’s going out, then it’s damn well going to be on his own terms. And if all goes as planned, he’s taking Sam with him. His smart, kind, brave little brother wouldn’t want to live like this, either, straddling the divide of a species bridging the gap between the monster world and human. 

The _least_ Dean can do, if he’s abandoning his quest for saving his brother and fixing the world, is to put Sam out of his misery before he goes. 

Ultimately, Dean hears them before he sees them. The crowd-roar of the Darkseekers’ hungry, furious screams as they bear down on the pier is _almost_ reminiscent of the sound and energy at a Yankees home opener. _Almost._ This is sharper, edged with something eerie and inhuman instead of anxious excitement, and that edge makes all the difference. The sound normally chills Dean, makes him tense and terrified, especially in the dark, but tonight he’s barely affected. 

He watches, unflinching as the gang of them descend from the cobblestone streets of the former shopping area down onto the smaller pier parallel to the giant glass monstrosity of Pier 17 on the water. Just as Dean knew they would, the Darkseekers follow their noses towards the smell of blood and the body waiting at the far end of the slip, its weight leaning with a distinct air of defeat against the protective railing. 

With a small huff of satisfaction, Dean smiles grimly. He watches the hoard angrily discover that while the blood they’re smelling definitely belongs to his dirty jeans, those jeans are fit onto Gary from the video store. And Gary’s got nothing to offer them in the way of humanity at all. 

Having rallied the monsters exactly where he wants them, Dean turns over the ignition in his SUV and flips on the headlights, revealing himself. Equally predictable, the group seems furious that they ran right past him and anxious ( _ravenous)_ to correct their mistake. 

But Dean’s ready. As the salivating mob charges towards him in attack, Dean puts the accelerator to the floor of the SUV. He takes off with a protesting screech from his tires, aiming straight for the advancing crowd and the end of the pier. He plows into them, sending several bodies flying and many more tumbling over his hood. Undeterred, the Darkseekers he missed swarm the car, grabbing and holding onto the mirrors and the roof rack as Dean whips them precariously around the narrow pier. 

It’s during his third donut-like spin that Dean looks up and sees Sam’s distorted face glaring at him through the windshield. No matter how prepared he was for this, the sight still freezes Dean in his tracks, makes his heart clench with sorrow. _Sammy._

Sam clearly doesn’t harbor any of the same nostalgic sentiment for what used to be. Even as the car rocks and does its best to toss him off, Sam clings tightly enough to bring his fist down on the glass of the windshield, weakening and shattering it from the outside. Desperate, drunk, and a quarter second away from losing his nerve, Dean spots an old street lamp built into the city-end of the pier and heads straight for it. Closing his eyes and sending up a silent apology to Sam ( _both Sams)_ , he releases the wheel, allowing the car to run full speed into the pole.

The crash deploys the airbags, smashes the headlights, and sends gas and smoke curling into the air around Dean’s extremely sore body. Darkseekers are flung in all directions, some over the edge of the pier and into the water below. Most of them seem woozy, injured and hesitant to rush Dean again.

Except for Sam. With a roar, Sam jumps back onto the crushed hood and resumes smashing away at the windshield almost as soon as the car’s stopped. There’s blood in Dean’s eyes, his vision is fading in and out, and his leg burns something fierce. Whether that’s from the previous day’s knife injury or something new from the crash, he has neither a clue nor the mental capacity to figure it out. Instead, he reacts on instinct, throwing the car into reverse, cutting the wheel, and flooring it. 

With a horrifying groan and the jarring screech of metal on metal, the half-destroyed SUV pulls away from the pole, still smoking and now trailing parts. Dean moves to drive forward, but as soon as he taps the gas, the car is smashed from the right side. The impact sends it up onto its two left wheels where it sways precariously before being knocked once more, this time all the way over onto its side. 

_Guess the reinforcements are here,_ Dean thinks as he blinks the still-dripping blood from his eyes. He can feel the infected jostling and climbing all over the car, see their shadows silhouetted by the moon in the windows all around him. 

The windshield shatters and Sam’s face fills Dean’s vision, his expression all focused, righteous fury. Dean laughs reflexively; it’s not funny but it’s also not _so_ different from the face Sam had once made when Dean left him at Plucky Pennywhistles for six hours so he could go try and get laid. 

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says weakly while Sam roars in his face. His brother’s jaws open wide, pointy teeth glistening in the pale moonlight reflected off of the water. Dean closes his eyes. So maybe he isn’t taking Sammy with him, no one could say he didn’t try. Add it to Dean’s very long list of failures, take a number, Dean fuckin’ gets it. 

Only half-conscious, he’s barely even bothered by what a tragic loser he’s become. Here he is at the end of his miserable life, unable to see _anything_ through, couldn’t even kill himself correctly. 

And now, thanks to him, his brother’s going to be a cold-blooded murderer, too. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he mumbles. “‘S’not your fault.” 

Sam’s breath is hot and rancid, gusting over the edge of Dean’s face, teeth inches away from ripping out his throat when suddenly, the sun rises.

 _No, not the sun,_ Dean thinks blearily as he blinks into the bright light currently sending Darkseekers scrambling and screaming in any direction it’s not. Dean can smell the foul odor of burning, sizzling human skin, hear their pained cries as they scamper frantically away. _UV light? How?_

Barely clinging to consciousness, the happenings around him blink in and out over the next few minutes in a way Dean has absolutely no control over. There’s a man, or at least Dean thinks it’s a man, dark where he’s standing haloed in the light. _Maybe it’s an angel. Maybe I’m already dead._ Between Dean’s extended eyelash fluttering, the man shows up at his side, gripping his shoulder, tugging him from the warped wreckage of his own car. He’s speaking, but it’s all an indistinguishable, garbled blur to Dean. 

_Angel language,_ Dean thinks deliriously. He just wants to go to _sleep._

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s in the passenger seat of a car, a big one, and they’re moving. He can still feel a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, shaking him, and there’s a voice yelling insistently in his ear. Dean groans and tries to bury his face in the hard sill of the window next to him before he remembers something _important._ The drying blood on Dean’s face cracks when he grimaces. _Is he dead? Is this Heaven? Doesn’t feel very eternal-Paradise-y._

“Where do you live?” After a long moment of trying and failing to claw his way back to full consciousness, those are the first words from his rescuer that Dean is able to parse out. Their owner’s voice is low and gravelly, full of concern and pressed urgency but no less compassionate for it. Even in his messed up state, Dean’s pissed that he can’t just bask in the sound. “Hey, come on,” the voice persists. “Your address!” The man is yelling at him and Dean has no idea why. His head rests heavily on the glass window as the world flies by in a blur on the other side. Heaven shouldn’t be so goddamn _loud._ “Where do you live, _hey,_ where do you _live_?” 

The bleeding wound on Dean’s head throbs angrily and clouds his vision, threatening to drag him under again. Still groggy and confused and valiantly fighting against both the pounding pain in his head and the searing, burning sensations almost everywhere else, Dean has to open his mouth multiple times before he’s finally able to force a few words out. 

“Eleven Washington Square,” he mumbles after another shake from the mystery man. “They don’t know where I live, don’t let them track us. We need to stay out until dawn.” Dean knows that part is important, manages to slur it out half-heartedly only seconds before passing out completely.

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, you've made it to where things officially Get Better. :-P

The next time Dean’s eyes crack open, it’s because the sun is beating down hot and bright on his face. He’s no longer moving, and in fact, he’s laid out flat on his back, the ceiling above him suspiciously reminiscent of his own. A quick tilt of his head to the side confirms it; he’s in his living room, on the couch. The windows are all without their shutters, which is a change from how Dean left them the day prior, too depressed to bother with opening them up. The man who saved him is nowhere in sight and for a moment, Dean wonders if his lonely, grieving brain invented the entire scenario as some sort of bizarre coping mechanism. 

A quick brush of fingers across his forehead, still tender to the touch but now covered with a bandage, suggests otherwise, and a glance down at his leg confirms it. Dean’s done things while drunk or blacked out before, but he’s fairly confident that stitching his own wounds isn’t in his subconscious’ skillset. He sits up slowly, his whole body sore and his head still a bit fuzzy, and examines the repair job on his thigh more closely. It’s good work; even, careful stitches and perfectly approximated edges. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. 

For his part, Dean’s not sure whether to be more impressed or more embarrassed that he’s finally met another survivor while attempting to off himself in his underwear, since Gary had his jeans. A normal person would probably settle on the latter, but Dean’s been without human contact for so long, he’s not sure that he can muster up the energy to care. 

Abruptly, the sound of a pan making contact with the stove pulls Dean from his focused reverie and his head snaps up. He’s reminded that he doesn’t actually _know_ this person, and while he did save Dean’s life (and apparently patched him up), that doesn’t automatically mean he’s trustworthy. Rolling off of the couch, Dean creeps over to a small cabinet pushed up against the living room wall and pulls a pistol from one of its drawers. He holds it at the ready, chamber loaded and hammer cocked as he edges warily towards the kitchen. 

When he first steps around the corner and into the sunny space, the sight that greets his eyes has Dean’s head spinning. For once, it’s not from alcohol or injury. There’s a man standing over the stove, facing away from Dean as he uses a spatula to poke at something in a pan that smells mouth-wateringly delicious. He looks comfortable where he is, domestic even, like he belongs in Dean’s home, like he’s always been there. The morning light streaming through the windows dances across his dark brown hair and bounces off of his tanned skin, like he’s the goddamn sword in the stone and Dean is King Arthur. 

As if all that weren’t enough to deal with, when he turns around Dean _then_ has to contend with the fact that he’s gorgeous. Objectively, stunningly gorgeous, with blue eyes that put every sapphire Dean’s ever seen to shame and pink, full lips, parted around a little gasp when he notices Dean standing there. 

Caught off guard, Dean just blinks, unsure how to react to suddenly having another human in his presence, in his _kitchen,_ never mind one that three years into the apocalypse still looks like he strode off the fucking cover of _GQ_. It takes a full minute of the man standing frozen and staring back for Dean to realize that he’s still got his gun drawn, and that the dude probably thinks he’s considering using it. 

Despite half of his brain warning him that it’s not a good idea, Dean releases his hold on the weapon and slowly sets it down on a side table, lifting his hands to indicate he means no harm. The man visibly relaxes and sets the plate he’s been holding down on the island in front of him. 

“I’m afraid the eggs are powdered,” the stranger says regretfully, and Dean recognizes his voice from their hazy car ride the night before, desperately asking where he lived. It’s as low and intoxicating as Dean remembers, or perhaps he’s just been without real human contact for too long and is losing it. “Obviously, you know that, they’re yours,” the man continues, seemingly unfazed by Dean’s silence. “But I did find bacon. There are antibiotics by your plate, I carry a bit of a stockpile with me. You should take them, that wound on your leg was open for far too long. It’s only a matter of time before infection sets in.” 

As he talks, the man scoops eggs from the pan onto a plate before setting the pan back on the stove and carrying the dish over to the table. He puts it down across from another, already full plate that’s presumably for Dean. “I heard you stirring in there,” he says, by way of explanation. 

“Who are you?” Dean asks when he finally finds his voice, forcing a cough when his words come out rough and harsher than he intends for them to.

The man looks up as he sits down, meeting Dean’s gaze confident and unafraid. “I’m Castiel,” he says simply before nodding in the direction of Dean’s food. “Don’t let it get cold.” 

Still watching _Castiel_ carefully, Dean edges towards the table, hesitating before he eventually sits down and picks up his fork. As he lifts some eggs to his mouth, Castiel drops his stare to his own meal, apparently satisfied. The bacon waiting at the side of Dean’s plate catches his eye and he has to swallow down the sudden swell of rage that fills him. 

_So much for my special occasion,_ he thinks to himself, irritated, but that’s not really fair, is it? Castiel couldn’t have known, and yesterday Dean hadn’t planned on ever coming back here. Bacon should be the least of his concerns right now. And hell, maybe finding another survivor is cause for celebration enough. 

“I came from Maryland,” Castiel is saying when Dean forces himself to tune back in. “I heard your message on the radio as I was passing by. I went to the pier at noon, I waited all day and then drove up and down the river after it got dark, hoping to get lucky and stumble upon you. I’m heading to Vermont, to the survivors’ colony. In Bethel, it’s a safe zone.” 

“There is no survivors’ colony,” Dean growls, letting his fork clatter back to his plate, never actually having made it to his lips. “There’s no safe zone. Nothing happened the way it was supposed to happen, nothing worked the way it was supposed to work.” 

Castiel stops, his own fork halfway to his mouth and nods. “In the mountains. There’s a whole colony of people there who didn’t get sick. The virus, there’s hope for—”

Overwhelmed, Dean snaps before he even realizes what he’s doing, using his arm to swipe the dishes off of the table in one fluid movement. All of them go crashing to the floor and break into a million pieces as he slams both of his hands down on the table. “Shut up!” Dean yells. “Everybody is dead! _Everybody is dead."_

Castiel jumps up from his chair and pulls a gun from where it’s been tucked inconspicuously into the back of his pants, training it on Dean without hesitation. With a frustrated sigh, Dean just slumps back down into his chair wearily, scrubbing his hands over his face and making the universal sign for _crazy_ at his own head.

“I need a minute, okay? Just…” He smacks his hand on the table again and Castiel jumps, just a little. “I just… I’ve been _saving_ that bacon, man. I was saving it,” he says helplessly, knowing that it’s a shitty explanation and unable to care. “I just… My dog is dead, and I’m gonna go upstairs.” Dean gets up slowly and starts to limp away, reaching out to the wall for support. 

“Wait,” Castiel implores, but Dean ignores him. “Your dog?” 

Dean sighs again, grabbing onto the door frame for stability. Everything about him, body and mind, is exhausted and there’s absolutely nothing about this conversation he wants to be a part of right now. “Yes,” he says through gritted teeth as he looks back over his shoulder, but Castiel isn’t listening. Instead, he’s making his way across the kitchen to the back door and opening it. 

“This dog? He was scratching at the basement door, I let him outside to go—” 

But Dean doesn’t hear a word Castiel says after that, because _Sam_ is bounding through the open door and across the kitchen, jumping up on Dean with two big paws planted in the middle of his chest. Shocked, Dean chokes on a surprised sob as Sam’s tongue does its level best to lick a hole in the side of his face. “ _Sam,”_ Dean cries as he wraps arms around the dog’s perfectly healthy and _furry_ neck. Despite Castiel’s presence and the obscene unmanliness of it all, Dean couldn’t stop the freely flowing tears if he tried. “It worked,” he mumbles into Sam’s fur. “It… _Sam,_ buddy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t _know_.” 

Inside his head, Dean’s already working the problem, sifting through algorithms and trying to figure out what the hell happened that Sam was dead and now he’s _fine_. He settles on the working theory that the cure must flatline the infected host as a form of hitting the “reset” button. It makes sense, in a way. Dean must not have waited down there long enough to see the real results, just the devastating precursor. 

“You’re so stupid, Sammy,” Dean mutters. “Why didn’t you bark, let me know you were okay down there? I missed you, man. S’not the same here without you, buddy.” He pulls back after a while and grabs Sam by the ears to look him in the eyes. 

“I got some bad news,” he relays gravely. “Gary’s gone. They got ‘im. But, uh,” he looks up hesitantly at Castiel, who’s looking back with a surprisingly non-judgemental expression on his face. “This here is Cas. He saved me, brought me back to you. Wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for him so…” Dean trails off, unpracticed at this human communication shit and unsure how to properly show appreciation to a stranger for thwarting a suicide attempt that would have left his best friend in the world to starve alone in a basement. He decides to keep it simple. “Don’t bite him or nothin’. Maybe say thank you,” Dean orders Sam gruffly, averting his eyes from Castiel’s searching ones. 

Sam seems to understand though, pulling away from Dean to nose at Castiel’s thigh and getting an appreciative scratch behind the ears and a piece of bacon Castiel scoops off the floor for his efforts. “Shit,” Dean says. “He knows I’ve been keeping that from him now. You’ve been here ten minutes and you’re already sneaking him the good stuff. Pretty sure he’s gonna like you better’n me in no time.” Dean cracks an awkward smile as Castiel glances up from watching Sam, scrutinizing Dean thoughtfully for a moment before allowing a little half-smile to grace his face in return. 

It surprises Dean when Castiel’s next move is to crouch down on the floor and start picking up the pieces of broken dishes, but he’s got enough self-awareness to at least join in and help with the clean-up. 

“You’re not so good with people anymore, are you?” Castiel asks, maybe more of an observation than a question, since he doesn’t pause long enough for Dean to reply. “Oddly enough, that used to be my problem, too. Except, I didn’t have the excuse of an apocalyptic event that killed everyone I cared about and left me in terrifyingly lonely isolation. I was just… awkward.” 

Dean swallows heavily and sits back on his heels, a pile of broken ceramic resting in his lap. “Thank you for my leg,” he offers, not knowing what else to say. “And, you know, for the… the rescue. Thanks for that. Sam…” He trails off and shakes his head, unable to go there and just hoping that Castiel understands. 

He seems to, if his sad little smile and gentle reach to take the dish remnants from Dean’s grasp are any indication. Dean watches as Castiel stands to cross the room and put them in the trash, wracking his brain for something else to say. 

_What did people talk about, before?_ He barely remembers, doesn’t think he could force small talk if he tried. But Castiel did save his life, and Sam’s by proxy. He also seems kind, he’s attractive, and now that he isn’t grieving, Dean finds himself suddenly desperate to keep talking to the man. He starts with something simple, something obvious that he genuinely wants the answer to. 

“So, where have you been, anyway?” 

Castiel offers him a hand up from the floor and Dean takes it. His grip is solid and warm and Dean resists the bizarre urge to pull Castiel in and discover what his whole body feels like pressed up against Dean’s own. It’s not a sexual urge, he’s just… _so fucking lonely,_ and it’s been so long since he’s been touched. Reluctantly, he lets Castiel go once he’s upright but if he’s not mistaken, Castiel also allows his own hand to linger, before clearing his throat and stepping away. They both sit down again at the table, somewhat awkwardly this time without the distraction of food to push around in between them.

“I was on a Red Cross evacuation ship out of Sao Paulo,” Castiel explains. “I’m actually from Illinois, I was down there on a mission with Médecins Sans Frontières. You probably know it as Doctors Without Borders.” 

“Medical doctor, huh? That explains the stitching skills.” Dean touches his fingers lightly to the cut on his leg and Castiel nods, reaching out to brush Dean’s hand aside and inspect his work for himself. The action brings him into Dean’s space unexpectedly, the tips of his fingers landing at the very edge of the repaired injury, his head ducking down for a closer look. Dean starts, sucking in a breath that makes Castiel pull away immediately, clutching the hand that was on Dean’s thigh to his chest like he’s been burned.

“My apologies,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean… It’s a reflex, you were my patient. I didn’t… I’m sorry,” Castiel stammers. “I… I’ve been told that I have issues with personal space and I haven’t… I suppose I’m still a bit awkward, after all.” 

“You just surprised me,” Dean replies honestly, gesturing around him. “S’only been me here, going on three years now. The touching… it’s a lot.” Castiel’s expression wilts, almost imperceptibly, but Dean’s always been pretty good at reading people and apparently, he still is. “Not in a bad way,” he adds hastily, because it’s the least creepy way he can think to tell the truth, which is that he wishes Castiel would come back and touch him some more. 

But Castiel looks hesitant, so Dean brings the subject back to safer territory. “So that evacuation ship you were on. Those boats weren’t meant to be permanent.”

“No they weren’t,” Castiel agrees with a small shake of his head and a sigh. “And then the Navy fell apart and we started docking to take on supplies. Someone picked the virus up on shore. Five of us were immune.”

“Five? So...” 

“The Darkseekers got them.” With that short revelation, Castiel’s face darkens and Dean’s all too familiar with the emotions behind that look. _He blames himself,_ Dean realizes, but before he can say anything (not that he’s got a clue as to what he might say that wouldn’t be excruciatingly hypocritical), Castiel changes the subject. “You are _the_ Doctor Dean Winchester, aren't you? The virologist? That’s, um, what I was trying to say before…” His eyes dart across the wrecked remains of breakfast still decorating the table in front of them as he pauses. 

Averting his eyes, Dean flushes with embarrassment at the reminder of how he behaved and does his best to look appropriately chastised. Fortunately, Castiel doesn’t say anything more about it. “Your reputation precedes you,” he continues, instead. “I thought… well, it's too late today. If we leave tomorrow at dawn, we can make it to Vermont in a straight shot. So if you have—”

Dean cuts Castiel off without ceremony. “I’m not leaving,” he replies firmly. “This is ground zero. This is _my_ site. I’m not gonna let this happen. I can still fix this.” 

Blinking, Castiel shifts back in his chair, a look of shock decorating his handsome face. “Surely you don’t believe that’s solely your responsibility,” he says flatly, and Dean just stares back at him, eyebrows raised. Of course it’s his responsibility. Whose else would it be? But instead of arguing, because for whatever reason, fighting with Castiel is not something Dean has any interest in, he has another idea.

“Come on,” he says eventually. “I wanna show you something.” 

And despite the fact that Dean is the one who is injured and limping, struggling to get to his feet on his own, Castiel readily takes the hand that Dean offers to help him up out of his chair. He doesn’t crack jokes or point out how unnecessary the contact is, and when Dean doesn’t let go as they move towards the door that leads down to the basement, Castiel doesn’t either. The solid presence of his palm against Dean’s goes a long way towards convincing him that he isn’t hallucinating, that Castiel is real, and Dean finds himself holding on to both the abstract and the literal for dear life. 

***

It’s readily apparent that Castiel’s never seen an infected person up close for any significant length of time, which isn’t all that surprising. What _is_ surprising is his level of interest and how engaged he is in learning about what Dean is doing down here in the lab. After being reassured that the infected girl is snowed, restrained, and safe to be near, Castiel launches into a seemingly never-ending list of questions, all of which Dean gladly tries to answer. 

For the most part, he focuses on the medical aspects of Dean’s work, the topics he’s familiar with as an MD, such as how Dean selected his sedation drug of choice, how he doses it, and the general physiology of the infected’s body systems. Castiel watches intently as Dean changes out the drip bag of Dilaudid, counting his lucky stars that it didn’t run out while he was indisposed. He then grabs a selection of syringes, filled with different potential versions of the cure, and hands one over to Castiel for scrutiny.

“I’ve never seen one so still,” Castiel muses, the tip of his finger just barely brushing over the infected’s knee. “They’re always fighting. You think this will cure her?”

“Uh, no,” Dean replies ruefully, accepting the syringe when Castiel hands it back. “These are duds. In fact, that one will almost definitely kill it, but it’s possible by drastically reducing the body temperature I can increase the compound’s effectiveness. Here,” Dean says, selecting another syringe and handing it over. “That’s the one that cured Sam. I’ve already tried it on the human host, but after she flatlined I re-infected her with the virus to bring her back. So I’m thinking…”

“Maybe you didn’t give it enough time to work,” Castiel supplies, and Dean nods.

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “Thing is, the infected? Like, as a group? They’re not _that_ different from humans. If I wait too long, I can’t reinfect her with the virus, she won’t come back at all. Dead is dead, even Krippin Virus can’t undo that.” 

Castiel tilts his head to the side, clearly absorbing the implications of that thought. “You don’t want to kill her,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Not if I can help it,” Dean agrees. “I mean, there’s the whole medical ethics issue, but aside from that, if she dies, I gotta trap another one. And that shit can get pretty dicey. Kind of benefits us both to keep what I have alive, if at all possible.” 

Handing the second syringe back, Castiel lets his fingers linger over Dean’s for a shade too long to be purely casual. “I understand,” he replies. “So what are you going to do?” 

Dean scratches his head, somewhat disconcerted at having to admit his new plan out loud. “Honestly? At this point, I think I have to try it. But I’m not sure I have the, uh, strength of character to stick around and see how it goes. I kinda figured I’d just stab her and hightail it out of here, come back the next morning and check what’s doing. Cowardly, I know, but...” 

“Self-preservation,” Castiel retorts. “Nothing about this is easy, Dean. You’re doing an incredible job here.” 

Surprised at how easily Castiel accepts him and his ideas, Dean chews the inside of his cheek and watches as Castiel runs deft fingers down the infected’s mottled leg, clearly assessing in MD-mode. “Thanks, Cas,” he says quietly. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “That really… that means a lot.”

Glancing up at him with a little smile, Castiel nods. “Of course,” he replies, wandering away from the patient and over to the wall where Dean keeps pictures taped up of every infected he’s ever captured and attempted a cure on. “Did all of them die?”

“Yes.”

“My God.”

“God didn’t do this,” Dean corrects bitterly. “We did.”

***

They work together in the lab for a long time, readying the potential cure for the first human trial the following day. Emotionally, Dean just isn’t up to trying it tonight. Hell, he may not even be up for it tomorrow. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the image of Sam’s angry, disease-altered face screaming at him as he punched the rest of the way through Dean’s half-shattered windshield, he’d be tempted to table the whole thing indefinitely. 

It’s not so bad working alongside Castiel, though. The guy is smart and willing to follow Dean’s lead, plus he has experience in lab work from undergrad and med school. Castiel seems like he genuinely just wants to help, and he blends smoothly into Dean’s orbit in a way Dean can’t quite believe. His presence is exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time, and Dean’s completely burned out from the rollercoaster of emotions he’s been riding over the past forty-eight hours. 

But one thing is for sure; it’s been less than a day, and Dean already can’t imagine letting Castiel go. 

Later, when Dean’s watch beeps alerting them to the approaching sunset, Dean closes up the lab and sets about showing Castiel how to (relatively) Darkseeker-proof the house. “Of course, nothing’s completely foolproof,” he admits, closing up the last of the downstairs windows. “But between the physical fortifications and the chemical ones, we seem to be doing alright.” 

They make sure to pour extra scent killer all over the inside of Cas’ SUV, the outside steps and windows, and anywhere else Castiel thinks Dean might have dripped blood as he was dragged from the car to the couch that morning. Dean also clarifies, “You _did_ wait to come back here until after sunrise, right?”

Nodding vigorously, Castiel makes an “x” over the center of his chest. “Cross my heart,” he says seriously, and Dean can’t tell if he’s joking or if he’s just that much of a dork. It’s endearing, and sets his stomach churning in a way Dean’s not entirely sure he wants to look at too closely just yet. “I didn’t survive this long by not knowing how to avoid them.” 

“Fair enough,” Dean agrees, stretching until his joints pop and allowing a yawn to escape from his lips. He closes his eyes, relishing the release of his muscles, even if he is still pretty sore, only opening them again after he moves to shake out his limbs. In that time, Castiel’s turned on a light and migrated to the edge of the living room where there’s a bookshelf full of pictures. Currently, he’s got the tips of his fingers on the edge of the shot of Dean, Ben, and Lisa, and Dean finds himself dreading the look of pity he’s sure is about to be directed his way. 

Except, once again, Castiel surprises him, his voice steady and even when he says, “He’s adorable, what’s his name?”

“Ben… his name was Ben,” Dean replies carefully. “And that’s Lisa. Ben technically wasn’t mine, but he was so much like me that some days…” Dean shakes his head, a nostalgic smile brightening up his face. “‘Course, if he was mine, he would’ve had a cooler name. Like Zepp.” 

“Zepp?” Castiel turns around with a questioning look on his face, that little head tilt he does setting Dean’s heart a-flutter like a damn teenage girl. 

“Yea,” Dean says, his smile widening to a grin. “You know, like the band.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel demurs with an apologetic shrug. “I’m not familiar.” 

“What? Dude,” Dean replies in disbelief. “How can you not know Led Zeppelin? Okay, we are gonna fix this, right now.” He checks his watch, it’s still early enough that the Darkseekers are probably just waking up, but all the same… He strides across the room and flips the generators off, grabbing a flashlight before returning to Castiel’s side. “C’mon,” he says, grabbing his new friend’s hand without even thinking about it and tugging him up the stairs. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly when they’re already about halfway up, and Dean pulls his hand away quickly, turning around and looking down at Castiel, abashed. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says. “That was really fucking presumptuous.” 

“No, you misunderstand,” Castiel tells him, stepping up so that they’re almost face to face before slipping his hand back into Dean’s and holding on. “I don’t… it’s _nice_ to touch someone again,” he admits, flushing slightly, and there’s Dean’s stomach, doing that flip-flopping thing again. “No, I was just going to say that you have some other injuries that should really be tended to. I didn’t want to… overstep while you were asleep, but if you’re amenable now…” 

Pleased, Dean feels himself grinning again and doesn’t try to hide it. “Make you a deal,” he proposes, feeling just a _little_ bit of the old Dean creeping back into his banter. “You listen to my Zepp mixtape, and I’ll let you give me a physical.” He winks and then is instantly horrified that he’s going to scare Castiel away, what the _fuck_ is he doing? Half-expecting Castiel to back down the stairs and announce that he’s decided to take his chances with the Darkseekers, Dean can’t help the sigh of relief that comes when Castiel smiles back. 

“Alright,” he says, and Dean can’t detect any note of reluctance or worse in Castiel’s voice, so he’s calling that a win. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” But then Cas actually lifts the hand that’s holding Dean’s and shakes it up and down and _damn,_ if that isn’t the lamest joke Dean’s ever seen attempted. Lame, if it weren’t for the fact that Dean finds both the joke and everything else he’s learned about Castiel so far oddly charming. It occurs to him that the smile he’s sporting hasn’t faded from his face in the least, and his cheeks are starting to hurt. 

“Alright,” Dean echoes after a moment, still standing there with his eyes locked on Castiel’s ridiculously blue ones. “Right,” he repeats, turning to continue their ascent with his ears growing just a little bit warm once he realizes how long he’s been standing there, awkwardly blocking the way. 

Bypassing the battery-powered boombox that’s set up in the bathroom, Dean reaches instead for his old, trusty walkman. “Too late for anything else,” he tells Castiel. “But I got headphones.” He jumps onto his bed and pats the empty space next to him. Castiel slides into it without the slightest hint of hesitation and Dean has to work very hard not to read into that.

 _You invited him,_ he reminds himself. _You’re only listening to music. You’re both just lonely. Count your blessings he wants to be anywhere near you after your big, bacon-wasting freakout, you desperate dumbass._

When Cas is settled and they’re tucked up snugly against Dean’s headboard, Dean distributes one earbud apiece and they each slide them into place. Sam wanders in, curling up happily at the foot of the bed as Dean rewinds his cassette and presses play. The first notes of “Ramble On,” filter through the little speakers and Castiel relaxes back into the wall, crossing his legs at the ankles. The light from the candles Dean has lit flickers gently across his face, and it’s entrancing. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be obvious, but dying to know his reaction to the music. And maybe just a little bit unable to get enough of _seeing_ and being near another human. 

“I can’t believe you have an actual Walkman,” Castiel murmurs. “It’s 2019. Didn’t most people use Ipods and such, even three years ago? I wouldn’t know, honestly.” 

“You makin’ fun of me, Cas?” Dean pretends to pout. 

“Not in the least,” Castiel replies easily, his eyes closed, a hand coming up to tuck behind his head. He looks the picture of relaxation; peaceful and beautiful in his resting state, and Dean _really_ has to work to resist scooting closer to him. While Castiel is distracted, Dean does his best to try and discern whether he’s _actually_ attracted to the guy or if he’s just touch-starved and desperate for as much human contact as he can get. 

Ultimately, he settles on both and vows to be careful, to not do something rash that will wind up pushing Castiel away. 

Meanwhile, Castiel does seem to be enjoying the Zeppelin, which pleases Dean to no end. He sighs happily and stretches a little, his hand reaching out to touch Dean’s arm absently as he speaks. “I may not know much about pop culture, but I do think I prefer albums and cassette tapes to their digitized versions. There’s something about the sound that feels… richer, more authentic this way.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Dean explodes, forceful enough that Castiel opens his eyes and darts a glance towards the shuttered windows. “Sorry,” Dean murmurs quietly. “Charging issue aside, I tell Sam that _all_ the time,” he continues, quiet but emphatic, without realizing what it is that he’s said.

“Sam?” Castiel questions good-naturedly. “Your dog? I didn’t realize he had such strong opinions on musical media.” 

Wincing, Dean withdraws a little from where he’s curled in towards Castiel, shifting back so that he, too, is leaning against the wall and looking up at the ceiling. This is a crossroads. He could blow Castiel off, could let him think that he did mean the dog, but something stops him. If he wants Castiel to stay, if he’s got any hope of convincing him, Dean’s going to need to be honest and tell him the _other_ reason why he can’t leave New York City just yet. 

Before he can, though, Castiel starts in on the colony stuff again, and despite everything, it really starts to grate on Dean’s nerves. “Come with me, Dean. To the colony,” he says, quiet and sure, like he knows something Dean doesn’t.

“There is no colony, Cas,” Dean replies with a sigh, not that it matters, because he _can’t_ go. Easier to continue believing the colony doesn’t exist than dream about something he can’t have. “Everything just fell apart. There was no evacuation, no survivors. You and me? We’re it.”

“You’re wrong, Dean,” Castiel says patiently. “I know, alright?”

“How would you know?” 

“I just know.”

“How, I said how? How _could_ you know?”

Castiel shrugs. “I have faith,” he says simply. Dean snorts and Castiel sits up, pulling out his earbud and dropping it onto the bed between them. “You were trying to kill yourself last night. I got there just in time to save your life. I’d say that’s something.” 

“Stop, just stop,” Dean scoffs, mimicking Castiel’s action with the earbud but forgetting to press “stop” on the player. The result is the distant sound of _Traveling Riverside Blues_ drifting tinnily up from between their thighs. Dean knows he should knock it off, that he should let Cas believe whatever he wants, but he’s heated now, and the words come tumbling out before he can stop them. 

“Don’t you think if there was a God, he would have stepped in a hell of a lot sooner? Let me tell you ‘bout your God’s plan, Cas. Six billion people on earth when the infection hit, KV had a ninety-percent kill rate. That’s five point four _billion_ people, dead. Crashed and bled out, _bam_. The rest, less than 1% had immunity, that’s about twelve million people like you and me. The other _five hundred and eighty-eight million_ turned into your Darkseekers, and then they got _hungry._ And they killed and fed on everybody. _Everybody_. Every single person that you or I have ever known is _dead. Dead._ There is no God.”

To his credit, Castiel just sits quietly while Dean rants, watching him with that intense, soul-searching way of his and Dean hates how much he _needs_ Castiel to see him. When he’s run out of things to say, he collapses back in a huff and still, Castiel stays silent. Dean scrubs hands over his face yet again and tries not to feel bad or guilty for exploding, but Castiel doesn’t even let on whether he’s bothered or not. 

“Say something, man,” Dean finally mutters, but Castiel doesn’t, not at first, just reaches over quietly and takes Dean’s hand back in his own. 

“Tell me the rest,” he suggests softly and hot tears well in Dean’s eyes, spilling over before he even has a _chance,_ a fucking _chance_ to blink them back. 

“Shit,” he huffs as he swipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’m a mess.”

“Understandably so,” Castiel replies, patient and steady. “You’d have to be somewhat insane not to be.”

“Yea?” Dean perks up a little. “Yea, suppose you’re right.” He pauses for a minute, focuses on the weight of Castiel’s hand atop his own and weirdly, it grounds him. He’s never experienced that sort of strength-drawing ability before, not even with Lisa, and Cas is _brand fucking new_. It would be terrifying if it didn’t fill Dean with so much goddamn relief and make him want to be brave. “Sam,” he forces out in a gushing breath. “Sam is my brother.” 

Once the dam breaks, Dean suddenly can’t seem to stop talking. He tells Castiel everything, starting with the night the President had quarantined Manhattan, or tried to. How, after watching Lisa and Ben die, he’d gone to Sam’s apartment where he’d told his brother to stay and wait for him to come back. He tells Castiel he doesn’t know what he expected, he knew Sam was turning when he left him there. It wasn’t as if there was anything more he could do at the time. There weren’t any potential cures that were even _close_ to the testing phases, no quarantines that could hold Sam and keep him safe until there were. The whole damn _Island_ was a quarantine, and to everyone besides Dean, Sam was a number, a statistic, nothing more. 

It still nearly broke Dean when Sam wasn’t waiting in the apartment when he got there. That was definitely the worst part. The months where Dean didn’t _know_ for sure, where he wondered if maybe Sam was dead, or if he was wrong about the virus and he somehow got out of the City ahead of the closure. 

_No, that wasn’t the worst part at all,_ Dean realizes, as he relays the account to Castiel. The _worst_ part was finding Sam for the first time _after_. Stumbling upon him, really, in a dank apartment building that stank of blood and rotting flesh. The worst part was seeing Sam fully infected; his eyes red, his hair falling out, his skin that sickly greenish hue all the human infected seem to take on.

And he didn’t know Dean. Would have probably eaten him, if he’d had half the chance. Dean had hightailed it out of there and returned the next day with a trap, but Sam had already moved on. Took the entire hive with him too, from the looks of it. After that, Dean caught glimpses of his brother here and there for a while before losing him entirely, at least until Sam the dog’s accidental foray into the dark while chasing after the deer. Vaguely, Dean wonders if Sam will move again now, if he’s intentionally keeping away from Dean, but he stuffs that thought down pretty quickly. The infected aren’t capable of that type of higher brain function.

As hard as it is to remember, that part of the story is almost easier to tell than the next, the part where his dog _Hunter_ slowly became _Sam,_ because Dean was losing it. With no human beings left to interact with and his brother’s well-being constantly on his mind, Dean had projected his loneliness and desperation straight onto the only thing he had left. Thankfully, Sam— _Hunter—_ never seemed to mind, and for that, Dean will always be grateful. 

While Dean talks (rambles), Castiel listens without reacting. He does turn towards Dean and ends up with both of Dean’s hands cupped in his own, squeezing them periodically in a way that’s both reassuring and encouraging. Dean doesn’t bother with even the barest attempt at trying to clean his face up or to stop crying like an idiot. Those memories of the early days, of Sam, his brother, and the fact that he’s _here_ somewhere, and Dean can’t save him are gut-wrenching, _painful_ reminders of everything he’s lost, everything he’s failed to fix. 

“And so, I gotta stay. He’s my brother, Cas. I gotta save him.” He knows his tone is bordering on pathetic and pleading, but suddenly the idea of staying here all alone seems like a monumentally terrible idea. Dean doesn’t want Castiel to leave this _bed,_ nevermind walk away from Manhattan (and Dean) permanently. But he can’t ask him to stay, he can’t. Manhattan is a wasteland, and Dean barely knows the guy.

“I understand,” Castiel says thoughtfully, thumbing over Dean’s knuckles with soothing strokes. “And if you were able to save Sam, to cure him, then you’d consider going to look for the colony?” 

Taken aback, Dean can’t think of a good reason to say no, instincts aside. “Uh… yea, I guess so,” he replies with a sniff. “Sam never liked living in the city all that much, even before. He’d probably be down for a road trip. Not like there’d be anything keeping us here, not really. We’d need a hell of a lot more resources to widely distribute a cure, anyway.” 

Nodding solemnly, Castiel squints and wets his lips. “Would you be at all opposed if I stayed on until such a time to help you? I’m not sure how useful I’ll be, but I’d like to try. It’s… safer to travel together,” he adds, but Dean can tell that’s not exactly what he wants to say. He lets Castiel off the hook, though, and doesn’t press. If anyone understands swallowing your emotions, it’s Dean. 

Doing his best to reply calmly and not like the extremely desperate man he is, Dean nods first without speaking. When he thinks he can trust his voice, he adds, “I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” With reluctance, Dean frees one of his hands from where it’s tangled in Castiel’s and uses it to wipe the residual mess on his face with his sleeve.

Castiel is silent for a few minutes after that, his unoccupied fingers toying with the earbud wires as the music continues filtering through in the distant background. Finally, he shifts and exhales, the corner of one side of his mouth ticking up in a small smile. “May I check you out?” 

Blinking in surprise, Dean sizes Castiel up, trying to figure out whether that was innuendo before he answers. Not that he would be _opposed,_ per se, it’s been so damn long and—

“I’m sorry,” Castiel amends, flushing a little. “That sounded—”

“Just a little,” Dean agrees, but he’s smiling. “Hey, it’s all good. Once upon a time, I’m told I was pretty irresistible.” He cringes internally at the weird flirtation attempt, but Castiel seems amused and not at all put off. 

“Is that so?” 

They sit there grinning at each other for several beats longer than is probably appropriate for two people who just met, but it’s not as if there’s anyone around to judge them for it. Castiel eventually clears his throat and excuses himself, disappearing downstairs and returning with a small duffel. “It doesn’t look like much, I know,” he says apologetically as he drops the bag onto the bed and unzips it, revealing an organized compartment chock full of medical supplies. 

Dean whistles. “Someone was a Boy Scout,” he teases as Castiel unpacks a few things, smiling without looking up.

“If you’re comfortable with it, disrobing down to your boxers would be preferable. You were tossed around pretty badly last night and I want to ensure we don’t miss any hidden injuries.” 

Unable to argue with that logic and still pretty sore from head to toe, Dean complies, readily pulling his t-shirt over his head. Castiel’s already seen him without his pants on, anyway. “And what if you find something? Something serious? You gonna perform surgery on me, doc? Right here?” He’s joking, obviously, but Castiel’s face sobers immediately and Dean quickly realizes he’s made a misstep. 

“I’d try,” Castiel replies tightly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Dropping his shirt to the floor, Dean leaves the sweatpants he’d donned earlier where they are and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, in front of where Cas is kneeling, still pawing through his bag. His face is set and determined but his movements look choppy, like he’s barely keeping it together. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing until Dean reaches into the bag to cover one of his hands with his own and then he chokes a little, dropping his chin to his chest so that his face is hidden. Castiel lets Dean continue to hold one hand while the other covers his eyes and his shoulders shake.

Dean waits, because what else can he do? He waits and he holds Cas’ hand until the little sobs are easier for Castiel to swallow and he’s able to wipe the last of the tears from his face. “I’m sorry,” he starts, sounding exhausted even as Dean shakes his head, cuts him off.

“Don’t,” Dean says softly, wanting to reach forward and cup Castiel’s face in his hand, to hold him and soothe him, but completely unsure if he’s allowed. He wonders if that sort of contact would be appreciated or rejected and doesn’t have the heart to risk the second, not tonight. “I get it, man. You don’t owe me an explanation.” 

With a tight nod, Castiel remains quiet, still staring down at his lap, and for a minute Dean thinks that’s going to be it. But then he draws a shaky breath in, lets it out, and speaks. “My brother, Jimmy, we were twins. He had a daughter, my niece Claire. They were visiting me in Sao Paulo when it all went down. I watched Jimmy die in my arms, but Claire was immune, like me. We got on the evacuation boat together and when we first left Brasil, I promised her…” Castiel drifts off as his words seem to stick in his throat, and Dean squeezes his hand again, since that’s all he can do. 

“The worst thing about Krippin Virus,” Castiel continues, his face hardening, “is everything _else_ it took from us. Claire didn’t die from the virus. She wasn’t caught by a Darkseeker. She had _appendicitis._ About a month into living on that boat. The pain started, she had a classic case, easy enough to diagnose but not so easy to fix. There were no surgeons, no operating room, nothing. I tried treating her with aggressive antibiotics, but sooner or later a decision had to be made. I studied some general surgery in medical school, did a rotation as part of my residency.” Castiel swallows hard and avoids Dean’s gaze. “I had no business operating on her. I was inadequate, and she died because of it. I failed her.” 

Horrified, Dean opens his mouth to say something, to reassure Castiel, to knock out that crazy idea that he was somehow at fault for what happened with his niece, but he doesn’t get the chance. The sound of a _crash_ from outside the house makes both of them look sharply in the direction of the noise. Sam stands up at attention, and Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand to lay his on Sam’s head, _relax_. 

The smashing sound is followed quickly by the inhuman screeching Dean’s used to hearing at night, and he knows he needs to go check it out, and quickly. If they _were_ followed home this morning, he only has minutes to act.

“Stay here,” Dean tells Castiel and Sam, directing his next comment to Sam only, though he gestures towards Cas. “Protect him.” Grabbing a flashlight but leaving it off for the time being, Dean descends the stairs as rapidly as possible while still remaining quiet. He makes his way to the front door and carefully slides the panel covering the peephole to the side, peering out and just hoping there isn’t a monster lurking right on the other side. 

He lets out a breath when his front stoop is clear, the closest Darkseekers thirty or so feet away, down where Cas’ SUV is parked. There are five of them, all sniffing around the car with interest. Dean scans the rest of the street, noting the source of the crash as a light post that’s been pulled down on top of a car. Thankfully, it isn’t one of his, though it’s a shade too close to his Baby for comfort. 

“Destructive fuckers,” he mutters out loud, regretting the choice as he watches one of the Darkseekers lift its head and look around like it heard him. Maybe it did. Dean holds his breath until the monster loses interest and moves on, ambling away down the cracked sidewalk like some kind of nasty cross between a drunken hobo and a spider. 

Against his will, Dean shivers at the sight, struggling to remember that there’s a human being somewhere underneath all of that. Pulling his eyes away, he checks the rest of the street and the area underneath the Arch, watching for a few more minutes to find anything out of place, any threats to his home and those he cares about inside it. Finding nothing (nothing imminent, anyway), he slides the peephole cover closed and heads back upstairs. 

Turning the corner into his room, Dean softens when he lays eyes on the sight that’s waiting for him. There’s Castiel, curled up in a ball against the headboard, one arm wrapped around Sam’s neck as he stares wide-eyed at the doorway, presumably anxious for Dean to return. When he sees him step through, Castiel’s shoulders relax and he visibly breathes a sigh of relief. Sam, for his part, continues to stand at attention, pressed into Castiel’s side in a way that makes Dean both grateful and proud. 

“Good boy, Sammy,” he praises the dog, scratching behind his ears in the way he knows Sam likes. As a reward, Dean grabs a rawhide treat from his bedside drawer and tosses it to him. “You can go lay down, buddy.” Released from his post, Sam retreats to the bottom of the bed and gnaws happily on his new bone. 

“Everything copacetic?” Castiel asks, the caution clear in his voice, and Dean nods, sinking down onto the bed between Castiel and Sam. 

“Just a couple of ‘em nosing around out there. Scent killer did its job, they never even got close to the house. Nothing to worry about.”

Castiel nods gravely and Dean wonders if he should try and return the conversation back to before they were interrupted or let it go. Before he can choose, Castiel makes the decision for him, scooting off of the bed and grabbing his stethoscope. “Ready?” 

“Sure,” Dean replies, secretly relieved to be off the hook as he shoves his sweatpants down and kicks them off. Except now he’s got a whole _other_ thing to be nervous about, which was easier to forget before he was mostly naked. He perches on the edge of the bed and does his best to look confident as he motions for Castiel go to town. 

Inside, however, he’s quaking.

The first brushes of Castiel’s hands over his bare skin are tough because they leave Dean desperately wanting more but also terrified to show it. The last thing he wants is to come off as some kind of freak who doesn’t understand boundaries. After all, this is essentially Castiel’s _job,_ what he’s doing _._ His hand on Dean’s bicep, fingers skating down over his ribs, a palm gently pressing against his spine. None of it _means_ anything to Castiel, in all likelihood. 

Still, Dean finds his eyes slipping closed against his will, enjoying every tiny touch for what it is. At the end of the day, Dean is only human, and humans _need_ touch to thrive. Up until this moment, Dean hadn’t fully realized how much he missed it. 

Starting at the crown of his head and working down, Castiel is gentle but thorough with Dean. He checks the stitches that Dean didn’t even realize were holding his scalp together just below his hairline, wetting a wash cloth and cleaning up the dried blood that still lingers at their edges. He wraps hands around the sides of Dean’s chest and instructs him to inhale deeply, pronouncing him “lucky” that his ribs appear to be simply bruised and not broken. Dean has to chuckle at that.

“You and me must have different definitions of luck,” he says good-naturedly, and that makes Castiel look up from where he’s squatting in between Dean’s legs, now focused on examining the repaired gash decorating his thigh. And that’s a mistake if Dean’s ever made one, causing an instinctual reaction when his eyes meet Castiel’s, all big and genuine and innocent and Dean is a _bad,_ bad man. “Jesus, Cas,” he murmurs, shifting a little and dragging the blanket from the bed across his lap. He just hopes it’s enough to cover up exactly what he thinks of Castiel looking at him wide-eyed like that from down on his knees. Dean forces a shiver under the pretense of being chilly, though the room is plenty warm and they both know it. 

As such, Castiel just squints at him skeptically, swallows, and then goes back to feeling Dean up, in the frustratingly clinical, _medical_ sense, that is. He remarks on bruises here and there, mumbles a little about the way Dean’s knee clicks when he extends his leg, fusses over some rashy roadburn on the back of Dean’s shoulder. Overall, though, he seems relieved and Dean rightfully takes that as a good sign. 

“So… what’s my prognosis, Doc? You think I’ll live?” Dean can’t help but prompt Castiel gently after he goes silent for a long period of time. Dean can’t see his face—Castiel is now kneeling behind him on the bed, methodically spreading ointment over an angry red abrasion that Dean can neither see nor reach. His hands are gentle and skilled and it’s taking all of Dean’s last ounce of self-control not to turn around, to reach out and touch Castiel too. 

But a quiet “hmm,” is all Castiel says in return, which makes Dean nervous. Forgetting himself, he twists his torso and catches Castiel’s wrist in his hand, interrupting him mid-smear. His intention is to get Castiel to admit if something is actually wrong with him, but one look at the man’s face and Dean realizes immediately what the issue is, and it’s not his body. 

Or, at least, it’s not that something is _wrong_ with his body, anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, low and distraught, and it nearly comes out a whine, he’s so desperate. “This is so… I’m being inappropriate, I—” He cuts himself off and sits back on his heels, wrenching his arm from Dean’s grasp and covering his face with both hands. “I’m so embarrassed,” he mumbles into his palms and even though he knows what he wants, Dean has _no_ idea what the proper way to procede here might be. 

After a moment, Castiel drops his hands and looks up at Dean mournfully, clearly not registering that Dean’s barely containing himself trying to figure out how to express the very same sentiments out loud that are so clearly splashed all over Castiel’s face. “I thought I could remain detached, but it’s been so long… _Dean,”_ he pleads, the rumble of his voice electrifying Dean all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes. “Forgive me. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched.” 

Flat-out giving up on making words, Dean shuffles forward on the bed, invading Castiel’s space until their knees are pressed together. He grabs Castiel’s hands, one in each of his own, and lifts them, placing a gentle kiss on the inside of the other man’s right wrist. A strangled moan slips from Castiel’s throat and his eyes flutter closed, a tear escaping from one and tracking wetly down his cheek. 

On impulse, Dean leans forward, bringing Castiel’s hands up to his own face and holding them there, one on each side of his jaw. Castiel’s hands are enormous, warm and softer than anything left in this world has a right to be, and this time it’s Dean’s turn to let slip a little groan. 

“This okay?” he asks roughly and Castiel’s eyes open part-way, heavy-lidded and filled with so much emotion Dean finds it hard to look into them. Castiel nods, his lips parting as his eyes scan Dean’s face, his hands starting to move, starting to really feel what touching Dean is like. In return, Dean brings his own palms to either side of Castiel’s neck, wrapping them around so that the tips of his fingers thread overlapping into the hair at the base of his skull. “You feel…” He starts but trails off, having no idea what it is that he wants to say. 

It doesn’t matter. 

“I know,” Castiel replies thickly, even though Dean hasn’t said a thing, his hands pressing flat as they move over Dean’s shoulders, sliding cautiously across the top of his back. As far as Dean’s concerned, he may as well have died the night before, because there’s nothing heaven could offer him that would beat this. _Nothing._

Somewhat emboldened, he releases Castiel’s neck and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up and over Castiel’s head, which he allows freely. Dean regrets the move momentarily as Castiel’s hands are forced to leave his own body, but as soon as the shirt is off, they’re back again immediately and Castiel’s sliding closer.

“Dean, I want to... _ungh_ ,” Castiel grunts as he surges forward and climbs into Dean’s lap without waiting for permission or bothering to finish his sentence. " _Yesss,”_ he hisses, as their chests press together, arms wrapping around Dean’s neck this time while Dean cradles his torso, a hand firmly planted in between Castiel’s shoulder blades to keep him close. “God, yes,” he sighs happily, his gorgeous voice like honey poured over gravel making Dean ache.

With Castiel perched slightly above him, Dean’s in the perfect position to rest the side of his face against Cas’ bare chest. Without reservation, he presses his ear to the dip between Castiel’s well-defined pecs, listening to his heartbeat thump steadily at a normal human rate. The pure relief at the sound he hears is something Dean could never put into words, and while the moment is largely symbolic, it’s no less heart-wrenchingly soothing. Clutching at Castiel’s shoulders to keep him still, Dean wills back the stinging threat of tears building at the corners of his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he whispers when Castiel doesn’t push him away, replying only in the form of reassuring circles rubbed gently into the skin of Dean’s naked back with both hands. 

Closing his eyes and just letting himself feel, Dean loses track of how long he stays that way, pushed flush against Castiel’s body and being cradled as if he’s something precious. At some point, he realizes that Castiel’s holding on just as tight, sifting hands through his hair and clenching his muscular thighs around Dean’s hips. Tilting his head up to find bright blue eyes already looking down at him, Dean sniffles a little but manages a smile. 

“You need this, too, huh?” 

His answer comes in the form of Castiel’s mouth against Dean’s own, warm and sweet with just a hint of the spicy tomato sauce from dinner. Dean’s residual headache fades into the background, dulled by the overwhelming realization that he’s _finally not alone._ Castiel’s here and he’s real and he’s smart and kind, not to mention the fact that he’s the kind of attractive you just don’t kick out of bed. Or at least, Dean didn’t, back when there were actually people to do that with. 

Briefly, Dean wonders if he and Castiel would have even looked at each other twice _before,_ but decides quickly that it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing here at the end of the world except pain, sorrow, and loneliness, and their reasons for clinging to each other aren’t any less important than that. Second-guessing and overthinking just aren’t things they need to do.

That concept is cemented that much more firmly in Dean’s mind when Castiel pulls back to cup his jaw, kisses him soft and lingering before tightening the grip of his fingers on Dean’s face. The drooping corners of his eyes bely the underlying sadness he carries, but that doesn’t come close to overshadowing the arousal in them, for which Dean is extremely thankful. 

Leaning into the hand now resting on his cheek, Dean flexes his own grip on Castiel’s hips and tugs him more firmly down onto his thighs. In turn, Castiel’s fingers drift softly, his eyes locked on Dean’s as the anticipation of everything that comes next hangs suspended between them. 

In the end, Dean moves first, breaking the spell by leaning up to peck Castiel gently on the lips. Everything comes in a flood after that; Castiel shoving Dean down to the bed and stretching out over him, kissing him deep and thorough as he seemingly tries to get every inch of the front of their bodies in contact with the other. Dean gets Castiel’s pants open, shoves them down alongside his own boxers, unconcerned with how fast they’re moving, unworried about _anything_ except greedily devouring as much of Castiel as he possibly can. 

There’s no way either of them have the higher brain functioning to be capable of anything except rutting against each other shamelessly, fingers of both hands laced together as Castiel pins Dean’s arms above his head. Dean relishes it all, so deliriously thrilled he almost feels as if he’s watching from the side of the room as the scene unfolds. He wants to touch and grab and stroke and so many other things that he finds himself extremely glad Castiel’s holding him down, anchoring him in one place, safe and so well taken care of. 

Equally as affected, Castiel moans freely, his lips falling away from Dean’s to gasp and kiss open-mouthed at Dean’s cheek, his neck, and behind his ear. He’s so clearly overwhelmed but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate, hips jerking insistently, _demandingly_ , against Dean’s groin. 

“ _Cas,”_ Dean mumbles inarticulately against the taut skin over Castiel’s collarbone, biting down and sucking bruises anywhere he can reach. “I’m _so_ —” He chokes on his own words, eyes filling with tears and spilling over as heat builds at the base of his spine. Castiel releases his hands, sliding arms beneath his shoulders and clutching Dean tight, and Dean’s quite sure he’s never felt anything like this before. 

Whether it’s only the desperate need for human touch or something else, some profound _something_ that could only be understood by people who have been where he and Cas are at, it surely doesn’t matter enough to worry about making the distinction. He hugs Castiel back, holds him to his chest and grinds his erection into the crease of his hip. 

Between his legs, Castiel redoubles his efforts, and the sweet friction has things coming to a head all too fast. “Oh, _fuck, Cas,”_ Dean cries out, unable to hold back any longer, twining fingers into Castiel’s hair and tugging as he comes between them, feeling Castiel cry and shake and squeeze him hard as he spills hot onto Dean’s own belly only seconds later. 

When Cas is done, neither of them move, though Castiel tucks his face into Dean’s neck and breathes hot and heavy, damp against his skin. Just in case he isn’t sure what Dean wants, Dean re-wraps his arms around Castiel’s back, if anything, more securely than when they were having sex. Hoping the message is received, Dean wiggles enough to tip them onto their sides, shoving a thigh in between Castiel’s legs to maximize their skin-to-skin contact. 

It’s not as if they can shower right now anyway, and Dean doesn’t need any more of an excuse than that to keep them from moving, from letting each other go. He’ll probably regret the sticky, drying mess between them in the morning, but for right now, it’s a small price to pay to be in Castiel’s arms. As his eyes drift closed, Castiel’s big hand comes up and cups the back of his head. “Stay with me,” Castiel murmurs sleepily. “Please don’t go just yet.” 

“Not goin’ anywhere,” Dean slurs back, nuzzling his face into Castiel’s messy hair. “Not goin’ anywhere.” 

Somehow, he manages to get the blankets up and over them, despite Cas’ dead weight on his chest, and they sleep. It’s the deepest, most restful sleep Dean’s had in years.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AMAZING Bees' art in this one!! Omg I love this piece soooo much.

Tugging off his protective goggles and rubbing at his strained eyes, Dean sighs. “I think that’s about all we can do for right now. It’s going to take hours of the cool infusion for its body temperature to come down to where we need it to be, and then we still gotta see if the resulting state is sustainable. Considering that one of the virus’ primary manifestations involves drastically raising an infected person’s core temperature, it may just die.” 

Silence hangs over the room as Castiel and Dean stare down at the sedated Darkseeker strapped to the wheeled table. A special pump set up and clamped to a pole encourages fluid through the IV tubing at a predetermined rate, cooling it meticulously as it passes through the machine before eventually pushing it through the catheter inserted in a vein and taped to the infected’s arm. “Gotta admit, Cas,” Dean continues. “This was a stroke of brilliance.”

“Induced medical hypothermia was very useful in my former practice as an emergency physician,” Castiel agrees distractedly, his fingers pressing against the inside of the infected’s wrist, feeling its pulse. “Not that we had the equipment to use it frequently in Brazil. At least, not properly. I wasn’t entirely sure I remembered how to do it. But the carefully controlled cooling is known for preserving brain function after certain major medical events. Cardiac arrest, cerebrovascular accidents. It makes sense to try and use it here.” 

“If it works,” Dean amends ruefully. Castiel looks up, seemingly only just now registering how pessimistic Dean is feeling about all of this. 

“There’s no reason to think it won’t,” he says reassuringly. “It’s a solid idea, Dean. I’m sorry we have to sit around and wait to learn the results.” Dean doesn’t reply, shrugging one shoulder and continuing to scan the monitors listlessly, as if he stares hard enough it’ll make something happen. Castiel gives him a couple of minutes before taking pity on him and leading them both out of the lock-up area. He seals the glass door behind them with practiced ease. Not that the infected person could go anywhere, even if she did wake up (which is next to impossible) but Cas has picked up on all of Dean’s routines and quirks extremely quickly, carrying them out without deviation or comment. 

It’s been nearly two weeks since that first night they spent curled around each other in Dean’s bed. In the days since, Castiel’s slipped seamlessly into Dean’s life in a way he would never have believed without seeing it firsthand. Nothing else in the world has changed, but nothing is the same, either. The city seems fuller, brighter, humanity’s plight somehow less dire, less hopeless. 

For the first time in years, Dean feels as if he really _could_ still turn it all around, and not just like he’s repeating the same tired mantra for his own sake. Self-preservation is a helluva drug, but now that he’s sober, Dean can see clearly how he was barely scraping by, knows he could never go back to living that way. If Castiel leaves him now, he won’t survive it. 

But Castiel doesn’t seem as if he’s got any interest in moving on, at least not if it means leaving Dean _behind._ He still mentions the colony, frequently enough to let Dean know he hasn’t forgotten or given up on the notion that it exists. Castiel isn’t exactly shy about broadcasting his desire to get there eventually, his steadfast belief that something better _is_ out there, just waiting for them to set out and find it. But Dean can tell he’s trying to use it as a motivational tool, something for them both to look _forward to,_ versus a threat. 

It’s a nice thought, really. A beautiful pipe dream if Dean’s ever seen one. Him, Cas, a cured and recuperating Sam, put up in a cute little farmhouse inside a walled-off sanctuary town. Safety, security, _community_. His own dreams don’t get much more idyllic than that. 

But the reality is, even if something better _is_ possible, all of that has to wait until they’ve got Sam, and Sam can’t be helped without a working cure. And so they wait, and they work, and in between, they love each other fiercely. 

There was a time when Dean would have balked and probably laughed uproariously at the idea that he could be in love with someone after knowing them for only a few days time. That wasn’t just fairytale shit, it was the opposite of everything he espoused as a person. Hell, he’d barely been secure in the conclusion that he was in love with Lisa, and they’d been together for _years._

In the entirety of their relationship, Dean can’t ever remember going out of his way to _tell her so,_ can’t recall saying the words unprompted, when they weren’t part of a rehearsed script where she would say she loved him, and he would say, “Me too, babe.” But that Dean and the world he was from are long gone, and this Dean is too broken, too tired to pretend. Or maybe he and Castiel just have something different, something so obvious it wouldn’t have required needling and stewing and questioning, in this world or any other.

Regardless, Dean wouldn’t hesitate to describe what they have, what they _do_ together as love. And not just the way their bodies fit, the way they move together in the darkness, in the safety of Dean’s bedroom behind locked doors and sealed windows in the dead of the night. No, it’s so much more than that. It’s the way Castiel’s fallen seamlessly into Dean’s routines—brushing his teeth by Dean’s side in the morning, helping to wash Sammy clean at night. Opening up the house and locking it down again, quietly and carefully, without question. 

He gets his hands dirty, out scouring the city for supplies or down in Dean’s lab, working on the cure. Checking fluid levels in Dean’s cars without asking, trimming the greenery that’s grown up around the Arch when Dean mentions it in passing, charging the generators and greeting the mannequins in the store, probably so Dean doesn’t feel stupid when he automatically does the same. Habit is a bitch. 

Castiel does it all with a disarming smile and a squeeze of Dean’s hand like he understands, like he’s never even _thought_ about judging Dean, not for one fleeting second. 

He even started out sitting in the middle of the back seat when they rode in the car, any car. He was fully content in letting Sam have the front passenger’s side, because, as he put it, “He was here first, Dean.” It’s completely ridiculous, and Dean loves him all the more for it. 

So when Castiel wraps a hand around his bicep now and says, “Let’s go out for a while,” Dean doesn’t even hesitate. In the past, he might have sat down in the lab for hours, just staring, watching fluid drip into the infected’s veins drop by drop, seemingly with no change. He would have tortured himself with the waiting, with the wondering, as the second hand ticked by impossibly slowly on the clock. 

But today, Dean lets Castiel lead him up the stairs, and out into the light. 

***

Sam sits in the back today. He climbs into Dean’s backup Expedition via the front seat as usual, tail wagging and tongue panting, before abruptly slipping between the seats and clamoring into the back. He plants his butt right in the middle of the bench seat, right where Castiel usually sits, and that, as they say, is that.

Dean finds that he likes the change. Sam still sticks his nose up between his and Cas’ elbows on occasion, but mostly he migrates over to the window and keeps his head halfway out, enjoying the wind. For his part, Dean has a hard time focusing on the road, suddenly glad for the lack of traffic and people since his attention is stolen repeatedly by Castiel. The man is pure fucking sunshine, there’s no way around it. He brightens every space he’s in just by existing, and Dean can’t help but gravitate towards him. More than once, he finds himself grinning like an idiot, missing turns and nearly running the SUV into stalled vehicles as Castiel’s smile and the sun highlighting his hair make it all but impossible for Dean to look away. 

There’s something about Castiel that goes beyond his beauty, his kindness, his seemingly eternal patience, especially with Dean and his rusty set of social skills. There’s an undercurrent between them that draws Dean in, makes him want to try, to work to be better, to be the kind of man that’s worthy of someone as _good_ as Cas. 

As they drive, Castiel reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, smiles at him with his head tilted back against the headrest. The corners of his eyes crinkle around those baby blues and his hair blows wild in the cool fall breeze. 

Somewhere near the Empire State Building, Dean pulls over so that they can make out. He leaves the car on, reckless with his resources like he never has been before as he climbs shamelessly into Castiel’s lap and twines fingers into his hair. “Need you,” Dean pants into his mouth and Castiel just nods without breaking them apart, sliding the palms of his hands over Dean’s back and thrusting his hips up to reply, ‘ _yes, I need you too’._ They kiss and grab at each other, Dean moaning around Castiel’s tongue in his mouth, grabbing his hip to grind down on him unapologetically. 

As things are really starting to heat up, Castiel suddenly pulls away, albeit with a gasp. Dean doesn’t miss a beat, though, dipping down to pepper his throat with love bites and nip at his collarbone. “Dean, stop,” Castiel murmurs, pushing him gently away. When Dean looks up, Castiel has a sweet smile on his face and he’s biting his own lip, which only makes Dean desperate to dive back in and take over that job for himself. “We should wait,” Castiel suggests. “We’ll have to scrub the seats clean if we get bodily fluids on them, and I’d rather use that time to get you into a real bed.” 

Trailing the backs of his fingers down the side of Castiel’s face, Dean grins in reply, knowing that he’s right. “Only you could make the words ‘bodily fluids’ sound sexy, sweetheart,” he says, sliding off of Castiel’s lap and back over to the driver’s seat. He leaves behind an awkwardly squirming Castiel, who does his best to adjust his pants before wiping in vain at the wet spot in the middle of them. 

“Serves you right for makin’ me wait,” Dean observes smugly, putting the car into gear and resuming their drive. Castiel just reaches over and grabs his hand again, raising Dean’s knuckles to his lips and kissing them softly. And damn, does that make Dean the victim of the most unmanly facial flush in history. 

The plan is to stop by the Highline and grab some fresh vegetables on their way home, after doing some fishing in the Sackler Wing and maybe some golfing off of the Intrepid, since it’s Dean’s favorite and Castiel’s never tried. Parking on the sidewalk outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Dean grabs his little Coleman cooler and lets Sam out of the backseat, patting his head as he exits the vehicle. He leaves his fishing poles stored inside by the pond, which is useful, because it means he’s got a free hand with which to hold Castiel’s as they walk up the steps.

It’s quiet inside the Met, like everywhere else in the city, but Dean doesn’t mind it so much here. This is a museum, it was always meant to be peaceful, so the absence of noise doesn’t feel quite as dangerous or foreboding. The two of them are careful as they make their way through the darker exhibits and hallways, but the building is empty as usual. The Sackler Wing is predictably safe regardless, being all glass on one side and letting in enough light that Dean doesn’t even worry about clearing the room. A Darkseeker wouldn’t come in here. 

He and Cas set up shop at the tiered edge of the pool, each of them with a fishing rod in one hand and a beer in the other. Sam gets a new chew toy, which he gleefully tackles to the floor like it’s personally wronged him. Side-by-side, Castiel sits close enough that his thigh is pressed hip to knee against Dean’s. Conversation is sparse, but comfortably so, with Castiel tipping his head up in search of Dean’s mouth every so often, like it’s the most natural thing on the planet, and Dean relishes every second. 

Three fish, six beers, and a shared can of cold Spaghettios between them later, Castiel and Dean replace their fishing rods against the wall before heading out to the car. The ride to the Intrepid is a short fifteen minute drive, but they stretch it out. They pit stop at the video store to exchange the movies they have and Dean _barely_ complains when Cas picks _Hairspray_ as a replacement _._ At least Cas is willing to keep working through the movies in relative alphabetical order. Dean’s got a system, even if it means he’ll be waiting another year to watch _Titanic_.

Laden down with bags of golf gear, Dean’s not thrilled about tackling the hundreds of steps between the Intrepid’s falling-apart welcome center and the flight deck of the floating museum. On the flip side, the fact that said steps are built into the side of the barge means that he and Cas can avoid the inside, where Dean knows for a fact there are still a few decaying bodies and an extreme lack of air circulation. Not everything about the apocalypse can be prettied-up by a shiny new love interest and a few kisses. 

Although… Dean tilts his head to the side as he watches Castiel and his perfect ass ascend the stairs in front of him. Those things don’t exactly _hurt,_ either. 

When they’re settled and set up atop the A12, Dean kicks back on the wing with another beer and watches Castiel attempt to do his worst. Only a quarter of the way through their ball stash and most of them having dropped sadly to the flight deck below, he gives up the effort to keep a straight face with a barking laugh. Castiel glares down at him and reels back his driver to swing again. 

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean says, pretend exasperated but unable to stop chuckling, “I thought doctors were supposed to be good at golf. Is that myth? That’s gotta be a myth, ‘cause man, you _suck._ ” Castiel sighs and lowers the club from where it’s been slung over his shoulder, leaning on it like a cane. 

“Excuse me for actually utilizing my license for what it was meant for,” he grumbles. “You can join my mother in insulting my choice of specialization. Perhaps if I’d become a podiatrist or a plastic surgeon, I could have kept better hours. Learned how to golf. Found a significant other and settled down. White picket fence, matching His and His SUVs, a small brood of Boston Terriers.” 

Sam quirks his head up at that, and Dean smiles in amusement. “Gotta go with Sammy on this one, man, _terriers?”_ He drains his beer and gets to his feet, circling around Castiel to wrap his arms around him from behind. “Here, let me help.” Dean adjusts Castiel’s stance, kicking his feet apart until it’s right. He squares both of their hips off, pressing his groin flush to Castiel’s ass before wrapping his own fingers around Castiel’s hands on the club. 

“Like this,” he murmurs in Castiel’s ear, bringing their joined hands back, up and over Cas’ shoulder. “And then follow through,” Dean instructs before sweeping the club forward in a practice swing, showing Castiel the path it should follow. He repeats that motion a few more times until he thinks Cas probably has a feel for it and then moves away. But when he steps forward, turning around to watch Castiel try it for himself and thereby catching a glimpse of his face, Dean can’t help but smirk. He knows that familiar, lust-drunk expression Cas is wearing, and he’s not even remotely trying to hide it.

Licking his lips and appearing to refocus somewhat, Castiel hauls back and swings, driving the ball several hundred yards with near-perfect form. “Whoa,” Dean breathes. Watching the ball fly and squinting into the late afternoon sun, Castiel nods with satisfaction and tosses the driver. It bounces off the tail of the A12 and clatters to the deck below.

“Hey,” Dean protests, but the end of his remark is swallowed by Castiel’s mouth as he grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him close, kissing him thoroughly and without hesitation. 

“I like golf,” Castiel mumbles against Dean’s lips, making him smile and laugh, not an easy feat when you’re trying to return an enthusiastic kiss. Definitely interested in this turn of events, Dean works them down to sprawl on the wing and sighs as Castiel wraps legs around his hips.

“Oh yea? Maybe I can show you some more moves, then. I’ve been told my game is pretty damn smooth.” It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh at the cheesy delivery, but he doesn’t protest, just runs a soft hand over the side of Dean’s face and rocks their hips together. Dean’s _just_ dipping his mouth down to lip at Castiel’s throat when his watch beeps with the first alarm of the evening. He groans into Castiel’s skin, feeling a warm hand soothe across the back of his head.

“It’s alright,” Castiel says softly. “Let’s go home, we’ll have all night together, then.” 

_Home._ Dean’s got no idea when his house became _home_ for Castiel, but he’s not complaining. Instead, it fills his chest with warmth and— _dare he think it—_ happiness to know that Castiel feels the same way he does, that he’s not thinking about leaving, that he’s _happy_ here with Dean, too. 

“What good is an apocalypse if we can’t fuck any damn place or time we want?” Dean grumbles, but it’s all for show. He knows his cheeks are flushed and that he’s doing a shit poor job of completely wiping the smile from his lips as he climbs up off of Castiel. 

“I suppose we _can_ do whatever we like,” Castiel replies, because he’s kind of a dick. “I’m just not entirely sure it would be our smartest move to challenge the sun in the name of release.” He’s smirking but Dean pretends not to see it, shouldering their bags and offering Castiel a hand down the ladder, which he does not take. Instead, Castiel scoops up Sam and descends the steps one-handed, and _shit,_ Dean definitely finds that hotter than he should. _Time to go._

On the car ride back home, they swing by the Highline and quickly grab some fresh herbs and vegetables as planned, since it’s just down the street from their makeshift golf course. Dean watches Castiel’s lithe fingers deftly separating produce from vine and tries not to get caught up imagining pressing him down into the fresh earth and redirecting those hands onto his own body.

Having Castiel around is endlessly distracting, makes Dean a much less effective hunter, a less driven scientist, but a much happier human being. Sometimes, he wonders if the trade-off is worth it, considering the fact that he’s holding humanity’s fate quite literally in the palms of his hands. As he stands in the waning light, observing the sun-kissed highlights brightening up Castiel’s hair and the smile-etched lines along his face, Dean finds it hard to feel even the least bit guilty that this is not one of those times. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dean says suddenly, making Castiel pause in his collection of dinner. “I know that’s kind of a lame thing to say or whatever, but I never _told_ people all the shit I should have… you know, before. Sam, Lisa, Ben. My parents. Benny. Shit, Benny.” Dean has to blink back a surprise wave of emotion and its accompanying tears at the reminder. “That guy gave his life trying to protect my family, Cas. I never even told him that he was my best friend. I got _no_ fucking clue if he knew. No idea if Sam knew how much I love him, that I would have died for him, traded places with him in a heartbeat.” Dean tries to look casual, scuffing the toe of his work boot into the dirt. “I don’t wanna make those mistakes anymore. I don’t want you to not know.” 

Rising to his full height, Castiel dumps his haul into the basket Dean’s holding before taking it gently and placing it down on the ground. He wraps dirt-covered fingers around the sides of Dean’s neck and his hands are so big they cover a portion of Dean’s face, too. He’s warm and reassuring and he looks _so_ earnest peering back at Dean with those big baby blues. “Dean,” he says quietly, emphatically. “Dean. I _know.”_

They kiss for a lot longer than they should, considering the time. 

***

Back home, their usual nighttime routine is a little rushed. To save time, the three of them shower together, creating a wet mess in the bathroom that probably takes longer to clean up than if they’d just bathed separately. It’s worth it for Dean to see the wide smile on Castiel’s face that comes along with a suds fight, and Sam barks happily between them, soaking wet, covered in soap, and thrilled to be included. 

Once dry, they lock down the house and reapply scent-killer to the doors and the windows. Castiel offers to mop up the bathroom if Dean finishes dinner, and he sends him off with a kiss. They eat together on the couch, legs propped up and entwined on the coffee table while they watch _Hairspray_ and Dean pretends to hate it (he loves it). Sam abandons Dean’s side for Castiel’s, resting with his chin on Cas’ lap, and when Dean looks over at them, he can barely fucking breathe from happiness.

The last alarm sounding on Dean’s watch finds him curled up into Castiel’s side, arms around each other, Dean’s hand on Sam’s head. He’s almost asleep, wishes more than anything that he didn’t have to move, but even lovestruck and content as he is, Dean is still smart enough to recognize that laziness with safety is how survivors become casualties. 

“C’mon, sunshine,” he mutters, dragging Castiel upright by the hand and leading him, blinking and yawning, upstairs. With the door to the bedroom closed and a candle or two lit, the illusion of security is strong. It truly feels as if they’re in a bubble that no one and nothing can touch. Dean knows that’s not exactly true, that the danger is still very much out there, and so before he lets himself get comfortable with Castiel in bed, he does a careful weapons review. 

AR-15 hanging on the back of the door, check. Pistol underneath his pillow, check. Shotgun tucked beneath the bed, double-check. All in excellent working condition, loaded and ready. Satisfied, Dean turns to find Castiel already tucked into the sheets, his chest bare and the positioning of the covers suggesting that what’s underneath is too. 

Dean’s drawn to him like a magnet and he doesn’t resist, stripping off his clothes as he crawls across the bed before tucking himself in beside Cas. Like they’ve been doing it for years, Castiel fits himself to Dean’s body, wrapping them tightly together so that he can mouth at Dean’s neck unhindered. It’s hard to believe they’ve only known each other for a few weeks, because the way Cas touches, the way he _feels—_ it’s something that Dean can’t even try and describe without using cliché words like _home_ and _perfect_ and _sanctuary._

Already, Castiel seems to intuitively know just how to touch Dean’s body to light his fire. In turn, Dean is steadily learning Cas’ planes and curves, his likes and dislikes, his wants and his needs. It’s strange to so consistently feel _good_ after all of the bad in his life, but Dean’s adjusting, and he thinks Cas is too. Although, there are some days when Dean still can’t help feeling like he’s doing something _wrong,_ something naughty, just by being happy when the entire world is destroyed and _gone_. What kind of person _could_ be happy in that situation?

And yet, right or wrong, here he is. And maybe it’s all that they’ve been through shining a little perspective on the situation, but Dean can’t ever remember being _this_ happy _before_. That fact has Dean wondering if he’s genuinely _so_ fucked up he needed the world to end to truly be content. Ultimately, he decides to split the difference and just not look at that one too closely.

“Feel some type of way about you, angel,” Dean murmurs into Castiel’s ear, making the bed-headed mess in his arms hum and squeeze him tighter around the ribs. Dean’s hand skates lightly down the smooth skin of Castiel’s back, fingertip pads pressing down harder somewhere around his lower spine. He massages soothingly at the tightness there for a long few moments before moving on, simultaneously brushing his lips across Castiel’s temple. He speaks into Castiel’s skin, because it’s easier to hide his face while he says what he needs to say. “You, uh, you matter, Cas. A lot. To me and to Sammy.” 

Castiel’s face is still burrowed in Dean’s neck, sucking kisses and licking over them as his hands grope unapologetically at Dean’s ass. Dean lets his nose dip to brush through Castiel’s hair, the scent of their shared plain soap fresh and clean and bright, yet unable to mask that earthy _something_ just beneath it that Dean knows is Cas himself. “I love you,” he mumbles before he loses his nerve, half-hoping Cas’ hair will muffle the words but mostly relieved when it doesn’t.

The thing about Cas is that he’s so damn good at anticipating Dean’s needs that the skill alone makes him ad-perfect boyfriend material. So it’s no surprise when Castiel pulls back just far enough to sweep a hand over Dean’s jaw before cupping it and pulling him forward to kiss his mouth fiercely. No sappy stuff, no emotional tears, just Cas’ sweet little smile and his gorgeous, sparkling blue eyes looking up at Dean, grateful and so obviously in love. 

He pushes Dean away gently, guiding him down into the soft sheets and the cushy mattress as he says it back. “I love you too, Dean,” he replies simply, no muss and no fuss and Dean will never, _ever_ get over how goddamned lucky he somehow got, here at the end of the world. 

But then Cas is pushing Dean’s legs apart, settling between them as he opens his mouth and swallows Dean down as far as he can go. After that, arousal and plain old _lust_ swiftly replace the chick-flick range of emotions Dean for some reason had willingly subjected himself to. It’s all too easy to get lost in, to sink into this bubble where it’s just them and their hands and mouths and bodies and nothing else matters but staying as interminably close as possible. 

Speaking of which, not that Castiel’s mouth isn’t liquid sin, but Dean needs more, needs Cas’s whole body to be within touching distance. Surviving without human contact has changed Dean irreparably, and this is one of those ways that particular scar makes itself known. Being alone and touch-starved has made him far more needy and a _lot_ more specific about what those needs are.

But Castiel gets it, and never makes Dean explain. “C’mon, Cas,” is all he has to say, combining those words with a light press of two fingers to Castiel’s shoulder before he’s grunting and obliging. That’s what’s great about Castiel. Well, one of so many things. But this? Cas understands. Cas needs that same physical reassurance too. 

Though in general, Castiel _does_ have a lot more self-control and is _much_ better about denying himself when necessary than Dean is. Hell, Dean’s not about to deprive himself of _anything_ that brings even the smallest bit of happiness to his current situation, no caveats. But Cas is nearly the very definition of balance, and Dean can appreciate that too. 

Here in their bed, Castiel shifts, shuffling around until he’s straddling Dean’s face, Dean’s dick still halfway down his throat. It only slips out when Cas collapses ungracefully onto his side, growling at Dean and using his heel to dig at Dean’s shoulder, impatiently asking him to follow. With a chuckle, Dean turns onto his own side, hand on Cas’ hip, and gladly takes Castiel’s cock into his mouth. Right away, he goes to town sucking and humming noisily, smiling stupidly around it when Cas finally sighs and relaxes, going back to what he was doing before and _fuck yes,_ this is heaven. 

In this way, Dean can reach all sorts of Cas’ various tempting parts. Squeeze his thick thighs, brush a finger over his hole, wrap arms around his hips and hug him tight. With their torsos pushed together, everything is so much more intimate, and it helps fill Dean’s quota for daily skin-to-skin. Not to mention, the reciprocal blowjobs amplify _all_ the sensations, making Dean suddenly remember why he used to prefer hooking up with men before Lisa. 

There’s another reason too, of course, and Dean’s excitement ratchets up when he hears the click of the lube cap and feels one of Cas’ giant fingers pressing wetly at his hole. He pops off long enough to say, “ _fuck_ yes,” before going back to his valiant efforts to take Cas’ entire dick down his throat. He’s _close,_ he’s definitely going to get there eventually, despite the fact that Cas is pretty huge. 

Dean moans and has to swallow against Cas’ dick pressing against his soft palette when Castiel’s finger crooks and swipes over his prostate. The surprise pressure and constriction result in Cas’ ab and thigh muscles going taut and the finger in Dean’s ass freezing. Dean pulls off with a little laugh and a wet trail of spit still connecting his lip to Cas’ dick. “Sorry?” he tries and Castiel laughs breathlessly as he relaxes again. 

“That was almost disastrous,” he murmurs, sounding beautifully wrecked, music to Dean’s fuckin’ ears. “Not that I’m complaining.” Cas’ fingers disappear momentarily as he scoots around again, pressing his front flush against Dean’s chest so that they’re face to face once more. “Is this alright?” he asks as his fingers attempt to nudge their way back in between Dean’s cheeks.

“Hell yes,” Dean replies, noting with appreciation the wetness around Cas’ mouth, the haze in his ocean-blue eyes, the way his hair already looks like he’s been pinned to the bed and fucked from behind. “Like I could ever get tired of looking at you all fucked-out and messy.” The only answer he gets to that is Cas’ mouth covering his own, and that’s perfectly fine by Dean. Within minutes, Cas is working him open again, three fingers deep and Dean’s rolling his hips, moaning as Castiel keeps kissing him through it. 

They don’t bother with condoms. The very thought seems ridiculous now, though it did occur to them to consider protection before their first time. As far as they both know they’re clean, and even if they weren’t, would it matter? Here and now? The world’s fucking over. In the end, they each came to their own separate conclusions that it wouldn’t. 

For that, Dean is grateful. The desire he feels to be close to Cas, to be surrounded by him, filled by him, it’s so immense and so desperate that it’s difficult to put into words. Barriers between them just aren’t something Dean can cope with, and he’s reminded of why when Castiel pushes inside him now. 

Plenty stretched and dripping wet from lube, all that’s left is the overwhelming sensation of _Cas_ splitting him wide, dragging against his walls, brushing over that ultra sensitive spot as he slides forward to be fully seated. Dean breathes out, forces himself to relax because he _wants it,_ wants it so badly, doesn’t want Castiel to stop or take a break or go any goddamn slower. He clutches at the flexing muscles in Cas’ back, grabs a fistful of his ass and encourages him on, but Cas is an immovable wall when he wants to be.

Right now, he’s glaring down at Dean, expression fierce and commanding and Dean has to let go of Cas’ ass to grab his own dick. _Fuck,_ that’s hot. _Cas_ is so goddamn hot. Finally, _finally,_ when Dean doesn’t think he can wait another second, Cas’ hips push flush with Dean’s ass, and he scoops an arm underneath Dean’s shoulders, cradling his head to keep them as close as possible. 

Right off the bat, Dean _knows_ he’s gonna be walking funny tomorrow and vows to take up yoga so that he can rock positions like this more often and more easily. It’s perfect this way; Cas inside him, pressed up against him, Dean completely at his mercy, at his will. 

And then Cas gets up on his knees for leverage and fucks. His first thrusts have Dean tossing his head back, crying out, scrabbling in the sheets and at Castiel’s arms for purchase. 

“God, _fuck,”_ he yells, and Castiel slows, changes his rhythm to something deliberate and deep that has Dean gasping equally roughly. “You’re gonna… fuckin’ kill me,” he manages to gasp out. 

But Castiel just smirks and thumbs over Dean’s lower lip, pressing down on his chin and forcing him to make eye contact. It’s a check, he’s seeing if Dean is alright. When Dean winks in affirmation, Castiel grins and goes right back to the punishing pace that’s probably going to result in Dean needing a new hip. Not that he’s complaining. 

Their bodies slap and slide together, Castiel hoisting Dean’s hips up so that he can more effectively grind down. The position and the action together have Dean seeing stars, seeing _heaven,_ and mercifully, Castiel fists Dean’s cock in time with his own thrusts. 

“Cas! _Cas, Cas, Cas,"_ is the most intelligent thing Dean can punch from his lungs. He’s sweaty and burning up from the inside out, drowning in all the sensations and the satisfying knowledge that Cas can’t get any closer to him than he is right now. 

He comes suddenly, orgasm sneaking up on him like a freight train and barreling through with relentless intent. Dean’s vision whites out and when it comes back, his legs are shaking and spasming, his whole body pulsing with white-hot aftershocks. Castiel’s thrusts are erratic in their own right and he’s dropped Dean’s cock completely, boxing Dean’s head in on both sides with quivering arms as he groans and finishes wet and warm inside of him. 

All Dean can do is cling as Castiel rolls his hips and works himself through his own climax, though he pulls out as soon as he’s done and Dean’s pelvis thanks him. He grimaces as he stretches his legs straight, and _oh yea, gonna feel that later._

When he’s finished sorting out sore limbs, Dean turns his head to see Castiel staring sleepily back, a dopey smile plastered across his face. He raises his eyebrows and places a hand on Dean’s hip, the one that was really jacked up while Cas had Dean’s thigh hooked over his arm. 

“No regrets,” Dean assures him. “You know, ‘cept the mess in my ass right now.” 

Castiel makes an apologetic (and slightly disgusted) face and moves to stand, but Dean waves him off, pulling a packet of wet wipes from the beside cabinet and cleaning himself off as well as he can. Really, they should probably wash up better than this, all things considered. It’s entirely possible that the Darkseekers might be able to pick up on the smell of sex, though Dean has no way of knowing for sure. 

That thought has him so unnerved that he briefly considers showering, but after weighing the risks of the generator and shower noises vs a _maybe_ scenario, he reluctantly lets it go. He and Cas will just have to come up with a better plan tomorrow. Figure it out ahead of time for the next round. They’ve been lax, and they’ve been lucky. Going forward, Dean vows to do better. After all, he has something to protect, now. Something worth staying alive for.

“You’re worried,” Castiel says softly when Dean lays back down.

“Nah,” Dean lies. “Just c’mere and let me hold you.” 

Like always, Castiel seems to realize that what Dean needs is for him to let it go. Instead of pushing the issue, he slides closer and pillows his head on Dean’s shoulder, drapes a leg over his thighs, and is quiet.

Dean loves him even more, just for that.

***


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is canon-typical violence in this chapter!  
> things may seem dire at times but this is not mistagged, no one dies, I promise!

The _bang!_ that startles them both from deep sleep is almost identical to the one they’d heard when the streetlight came down that first night Castiel was here. Dean’s out of bed in a flash, pulling boxers and a t-shirt on before shouldering his rifle and creeping quietly down the stairs. He checks the gun absently, releasing the safety before he’s even made it to the bottom. His hips and thighs ache, the dull, pleasant kind, but enough to make him wince as he moves.

Before he flips the peephole cover on the front door, Dean stops to listen. Pressing an ear flat against the smooth surface, he strains to hear anything on the other side. As far as he can tell, things are silent and still in the outside world. Not even the usual screeching is present tonight, and for some reason, that unnerves Dean all the more. He glances down at his arm to see the hairs standing on end and shivers, though it isn’t cold. 

Stepping back, Dean slides the peephole cover to the right and peers through. 

“Shit!” He yells reflexively before clamping a hand over his mouth. There’s a Darkseeker _right_ on the other side, looking back at him. It bares its teeth and growls, saliva dripping and pooling at the corner of its greyish lip. Dean sights his rifle through the door, preparing to shoot when the Darkseeker suddenly snaps its jaw closed and darts away into the moon-casted shadows. Distraught, Dean lowers the rifle and leans his shoulder against the door, breathing hard. He runs a hand through his hair before straightening back up and glancing outside again, just in case. 

There’s nothing else out there. No other Darkseekers, no mutant dogs, nothing out of the ordinary at all. With an uneasy sigh, Dean slides the peephole cover closed and secures it before turning back around and startling himself all over again. Cas is standing right fuckin’ behind him, looking adorably ruffled and equally concerned.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean grumbles, slapping a hand to his chest, miming a heart attack. “We need to get you a bell or something.” 

“I saw it,” Castiel says, clearly worried, and Dean nods.

“Yea,” he agrees distractedly. “Pretty weird. No idea why it didn’t try to break in and get to us. It just ran away like… like?” 

“Like it thought better of it?”

“Or something,” Dean replies, rubbing his chin and looking back towards the now-secured door.

At his side, Castiel slides a reassuring hand across Dean’s back, lets it come to rest between his shoulder blades. “Are we in danger? Should we leave?” Dean doesn’t reply at first and so Castiel continues, “It’s just, it seemed to me that this creature was perhaps… searching. Is it possible that it left to report back to the hive?”

“No,” Dean says quickly, more firm and confident than he feels. “These things… Cas, they aren’t capable of that level of intelligent thought.” Even as he says so, Dean feels less sure than he ever has, and it’s clear from the expression on Castiel’s face that he’s on the same page. “Doesn’t matter. We’d be way less safe out there than we are in here. You wanna go make us something to drink? I’ll check the exterior defense systems, just in case, alright?”

“Alright, Dean,” Castiel replies, brushing a kiss over Dean’s cheek before retreating to the kitchen. “I trust you.” 

As Dean sets about poking at the wiring for his remote-triggered outside security, he’s not entirely sure that trust has been earned. Something feels off tonight. Something feels like it’s coming. Unfortunately, it’s still the middle of the night, and in this world, the night doesn’t belong to humans like them anymore. 

Until the sun comes up, all Castiel and Dean can do is wait.

***

When Dean finds Castiel in the kitchen, there’s warmed reconstituted powdered milk waiting for him on top of the breakfast bar. It’s in a mug shaped like a cow, and for whatever reason, that feels particularly incongruous with their current reality. Dean blinks down at the unappetizing offering as Castiel glances up at him from where he’s seated one stool over. 

“Appreciate the gesture and all, Cas, but warm milk is already kinda gross. _Powdered_ warm milk? I don’t think we’re at the “hold each other’s hair back while we vomit,” stage of our relationship yet.” 

“I think we are.” Castiel replies without missing a beat, and Dean can’t help but do a double-take. 

“Um.”

“Relax,” Castiel tells him, patting Dean’s thigh as he finally sits before reaching down and grabbing a bottle that’s sitting on the ground at his feet. He sets it on the bar and slides it over to Dean. 

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Dean says with a grin, twisting the cap off of the proferred bottle of whiskey and pouring a shot into the empty glass Cas materializes next to it. While he’s definitely unsettled enough to want to put away at least a third of the bottle, Dean resists, measuring out a finger and no more. If that Darkseeker comes back, if it brings _friends,_ Dean is not about to fail the people he loves _again._ Just the thought of that happening is almost enough to make him push the cup away, but not quite. He’s still jittery, still anxious, and a couple of swallows to take the edge off of his raging emotions aren’t going to sway his focus. 

Still, Dean begrudgingly has to admit that Castiel’s steady palm on his leg is doing a hell of a lot more for his nerves than any liquor could. Because of that, Dean makes sure to take a moment and blow out a stream of frustration from his lungs before he starts throwing up walls and pushing Castiel away. He’s not even fuckin’ sure _why_ he’s feeling so rattled and uneasy, but he’s at least with it enough to realize that taking those feelings out on Cas would be shitty. 

“‘M sorry,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders and shaking himself off. “I’ve never seen one come up like that before. They’ve never gotten that close to the house.” 

“It’s disquieting,” Castiel agrees softly, giving Dean’s thigh a squeeze. “Do you think—” 

Dean never gets to find out what Castiel’s going to ask, because he’s interrupted by a steady rumbling underfoot, a slow and building vibration that shakes the very foundations of the building they’re sitting in. The only thing Dean can think to compare it to is the sound and feeling of a train coming into the station. Down in the subways or up on the elevated tracks, it’s that same lowkey thunder rolling in underfoot and all around, reverberating off of the walls and in your own ears.

There haven’t been trains in Manhattan since the night the city was quarantined. 

There hasn’t been _anything_ that could create the type of noise and sound and _shaking_ Dean feels now. For a minute, Dean entertains the delusion that they’re saved, that the military is back, that this is the beginning of the end of the apocalypse. The start of how everything goes back to normal.

That thought would be laughable if it weren’t so sad, and considering their current situation, terrifying. 

A quickly exchanged glance with Castiel and both of their drinks and seats are abandoned as they each grab battle positions. Suddenly, Dean’s thankful as hell for the day he showed Castiel how to activate all of the exterior defenses in the event that Dean was hurt or incapacitated, as Castiel jumps into action like he was born to it. Dean whistles for Sam as he heads for the front door, sliding the peephole cover over without listening first this time. 

It’s so much worse than he feared. Worse, in fact, than he ever could have imagined inside his own mind. In Dean’s nightmares, both waking and sleep, he’d envisioned this moment hundreds of times over. The day the Darkseekers would find him, the day they’d make it their mission to tear both him and his home apart, shred them until there was nothing left. Even still, never in his wildest dreams did he envision that it would be _so many_ of them. 

“This is impossible,” Dean murmurs, breath coming short as he watches the massive hoard come racing full speed across Washington Square towards the arch and beyond that, _them_. His palms sweat and despite all of his training and preparation, he starts to panic. “They don’t… They can’t—”

“Dean,” Castiel snaps from across the room and Dean can almost feel his own pupils constrict and focus. This is no time to lose it.

“Right,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Ready? One, two, three— _Now,_ Cas!” 

On Dean’s count, Cas blows the first wave of bombs hidden around Washington Square, taking out a large portion of the advancing infected. Their roars are so loud and furious Dean thinks he can still hear them over the explosions. From where he’s standing, Dean can see groups of them— _way_ too many of them—actively escaping the blasts. Jumping onto the now-defunct fountain, climbing lamp posts, scaling the bottom of the Arch—anything they can do to get out of the way and save their own lives.

While Castiel’s busy managing when to detonate the second round of explosives, Dean checks the emergency generators that power his exterior illumination. He’s firing them up and hitting the remote trigger for the lights when he hears the next round of detonations. Flying to the door, Dean assesses the damage as well as he can from inside. That series of blasts took out a significant number of the remaining infected, but there’s a whole bunch left and they’re all still coming.

The giant UV spotlights Dean rigged are taken down faster than he could have predicted. Their sweeping beams provide a small amount of cover for the front of the house, but it won’t last long. Dean gives the hoard ten minutes max before they have them all down and ripped from power. 

And then they’ll come. 

“The basement,” Dean barks, motioning for Castiel—who’s gathering guns and knives and god knows what else from Dean’s weapons chest—to follow. “Sam!” He calls out, but Sam doesn’t appear, and so Dean starts for the stairs. “Get to the basement,” he yells over his shoulder as he pounds the steps. “I mean it, Cas! Don’t be a goddamn hero.” 

When Dean reaches the second-floor landing, he hears it. Several thumps and the sound of scratching above his head. There are infected on the roof; it’s only a matter of time until they rip their way in. “ _Sam,”_ Dean hisses, but still Sam doesn’t come. “Goddamn it, Sammy, where are you?” 

Rounding the corner to enter his bedroom, everything that already hasn’t goes to hell at once. 

There’s the sound of gunfire erupting downstairs, followed by a small explosion and windows shattering on what feels like every level of the house. The smell of acrid smoke and fire starts to fill the air, and Dean spares a brief thought to hope that Cas made it to the basement. 

In front of him, Sam’s furry head is visible just beneath the edge of the bed, and Dean reaches down to grab him by the scruff. Unfortunately, he’s forced to let go when his bedroom window implodes inward and Dean has to shield his face. The shattering glass is followed by an oversized body crashing heavily onto his floor, and Dean would recognize that body anywhere, even twisted and deformed as it is. 

“Fuck,” Dean swears as _Sam, his brother,_ recovers from his jump through the glass and the heavy shutters, rising to his full height with no sign that the impact affected him at all. He makes eye contact with Dean and roars, sharp teeth glistening dangerously, just like they did on the pier. Wholly unprepared for this, Dean fights dual instincts telling him to run and also to try and hug his shared lifetime of memories back into his brother. 

Common sense prevails and Dean reaches out, wraps fingers around Sam the dog’s collar, jerking him out from under the bed as Dean makes a break for the steps. Sam howls furiously and follows, catching up to Dean with very little effort and backhanding him so hard he flies halfway down the hallway. The blow sends Dean stumbling past the stairs and knocks loose his grip on the dog, who seems equally confused and distraught. The canine Sam growls at his namesake before beating a hasty retreat to the corner of the hallway, cowering between a wall and a decorative ficus.

Breathing heavily, Dean looks up to see his brother stalking towards him, all green-tinged skin, red eyes, and a distinct absence of hair. It’s so _un-_ Sam-like that Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it, ever get used to it, ever be able to sleep without seeing it behind his eyelids. Sam’s muscles and his lanky limbs are still so similar though, and something about the way he moves… It could _almost_ make Dean think that part of his brother is still in there.

It’s familiar enough, at least, to make him drop his guard, to lower his rifle for the _half-_ second Sam needs to get an opening, and as a consequence, Dean’s flying over the banister before he even realizes what’s happened. 

“ _Oof,”_ he grunts, landing rough on his back and wincing at the pain of his shoulders and hips striking the edges of stairs. When he shifts, his left shoulder sends a lightning strike of pain down his arm during any attempt to move it. Dean’s no medical doctor, but that sure seems like a sign of some serious damage. 

Above him, his brother growls menacingly over the banister, and as Dean watches, flames from whatever went on downstairs start to lick at the walls and ceiling behind his head. The smoke is getting thick, and Dean suddenly feels awfully lightheaded.

A whistle sounds from somewhere below him, and a rush of fur and paws appear at Dean’s side, returning the whistle with a sharp bark. Just like that, Cas is there, sliding an arm behind Dean’s shoulders and pulling him up, taking as much of Dean’s weight as he’s able. “Cas, you idiot,” Dean complains, but he’s so relieved to be rescued _again_ that he can’t even muster up the energy to be gruff about it. “This is becoming a pattern.” 

“Come on,” Castiel replies, raising his voice to be heard over the crackling of fire and the smashing sounds of what Dean assumes are other infected raiding his home. With Cas’ help, Dean half-stumbles/half-allows himself to be dragged down the steps and across the hallway to the basement door. The canine Sam stays tight to their sides and for now at least, Dean’s brother has disappeared. 

Not for long though, since as soon as Cas and Sam step over the threshold of the basement doorway, Sam jumps from the balcony above, landing in the foyer with an ominous thud that rattles the entire house. Dean yelps and slams the door shut, barricading it with the cross-bar he’d installed months ago in case of this very thing. 

It’s clear as day, though, that the bar won’t hold forever. Even as their motley trio makes their unsteady way down the steps, the door shakes and threatens to give way. Heart throbbing in his chest and pulse rushing in his ears, Dean does his best to block out the enraged pounding Sam is giving the door on the other side. The UV light at the entrance to the lab is still on, but if the barricade won’t stop Sam, Dean isn’t holding out much hope for the little light bar. 

“What now?” Castiel asks, face pale and full of terror, though his grip on Dean doesn’t falter for a second. Dean hesitates, looking up towards the only exit, where smoke is already starting to seep underneath the rattling doorway. He’s essentially trapped them down here in a building that may be literally burning to the ground, but it’s not as if there were a ton of options. 

“The holding tank,” Dean says decisively, tipping his chin towards the bullet-proof glass wall he built at the back of the room, the space that’s currently containing his human trial specimen. As they all pile inside, Dean pulls the cart that holds the potential cure in with them using his good hand; no sense in risking losing that as well. They lock the swinging glass door from the inside, deadbolt it shut, and wait. 

In the most sickeningly ironic twist of fate yet, one look at the infected girl on his table and her continuous temperature reading on the monitor, and Dean realizes she’s ready. If the cure is going to work, they could find out right now. With his brother on a mission to take him out and the dwindling possibility that any of them are going to survive the night hanging overhead, that possibility abruptly becomes _the most_ important thing on Dean’s mind.

If he’s going to die right as he finds a cure, he can at least make sure that cure is preserved. He _will_ make sure the cure is preserved.

Without a word to Cas, Dean gets to work, bum arm and all. He pushes through the pain in his shoulder to draw up a dose of the new Compound 6 and inject it straight into the infected’s chilly thigh. As expected, her heart rate slows and the seconds between her breaths get longer and longer before they stop. Right as the monitor begins to flatline, Dean gets a blood draw needle into the infected’s arm and attaches a vacutainer to obtain a few vials of blood. By the time he’s done, the infected is completely motionless; pulseless, apneic. For all intents and purposes and by any medical definition, she’s dead. 

All the while, Castiel doesn’t say a thing. He just takes the vials when Dean hands them over and labels them, though Dean doesn’t bother to ask what he writes. He’s relatively sure that Castiel understands what he’s doing—there’s no need to discuss the grim reality of it. In fact, Dean’s not sure he could if he wanted to.

As he stands there, watching the practically-dead infected for any sign of returning life, the possibility that this is _The End_ for him and Castiel hits him in the chest like a sack of bricks. He’d turn around to look Cas in the eye, to try and memorize all the lines of his face, the vibrant blue of his eyes, but he knows if he does that, he won’t be able to hold on. 

_It’s not enough._

That’s the only thing that comes to Dean’s mind. Not enough nights curled together and days spent drowning in the sun. Not enough sweet kisses and fierce embraces, domestic dinners and playful shared showers. Not enough love or sex or laughter or tears. Not enough _time._

His breath catching in his throat, Dean blinks back the water filling his eyes as Castiel’s hand comes to rest knowingly on his hip from behind. As Dean squeezes his eyes shut and the first tear falls, Cas’ face presses into the space between Dean’s shoulder blades, just as the door to the upper level finally gives way and comes crashing down the steps. 

Sam, Dean’s once and always brother, follows close behind.

For his part, Sam the dog growls and bares his teeth, apparently no longer afraid, or maybe he’s like Dean, afraid and standing up anyway. That’s a nice thought, and Dean pats his most loyal friend on the head.

There’s still no sign of recognition behind Sam’s eyes as he tromps forward, just rage and fury and single-minded determination. He stalks towards the glass as several other Darkseekers burst through the destroyed door _and_ through the small window at the far end of the room, near the ceiling above the steps. The one that comes through that way first leaves a sizable hole in the wall around it, and that’s the moment that Dean really starts to acknowledge the fact that he’s going to die here. 

In all of the mounting chaos, Dean nearly misses it. Would have definitely done so, if it weren’t for Cas. _Always Cas, saving his ass._

“Dean,” Castiel says anxiously, squeezing Dean’s hip and stepping to the side so that their arms are pressed together. “Dean, look.” 

Sure enough, the cardiac monitor is sputtering back to life, right in front of their eyes. Without the aid of any medication or electricity, Dean watches it cycle through V-Fib to an extremely slow third-degree block, to a shitty sinus arrhythmia. Finally, it organizes into something a lot more recognizable; a sixty beat per minute steady sinus rhythm that against all odds, holds. The former infected’s breathing stabilizes as well—even and deep, maybe eighteen breaths per minute, by Dean’s rough estimation. _Perfectly, humanly, normal._

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes, diving forward to take some more blood samples. Wrapped up in his excitement, Dean completely forgets about the nightmare fodder surrounding them and is undeterred even by the persistent pain in his shoulder.

It doesn’t take more than a half-second for him to be reminded. As the first drops of blood fill Dean’s new test tube, an ear-splitting roar comes from the other side of the glass. Startled, Dean barely manages to keep a hold of the vial as he glances up. 

Sam’s furious face stares back, his bloodshot gaze darting between Dean and the newly-cured girl strapped down to his table. Angry as hell, Sam bashes his fists against the glass, repeatedly and hard enough that the faintest spidering cracks start to become visible. He’s screaming and it’s _focused,_ Dean would know that look on Sam anywhere. _But why would he…_

_Oh._

The way so many things suddenly slot into place in Dean’s head is almost criminally obvious and embarrassing, and if he makes it out of this alive, Dean’s going to be kicking himself for a _very_ long time.

“Christ, I’ve been so stupid,” he mutters, leaning forward to lift the infected girl’s right hip high enough to visualize her lower back. Just as he feared, there’s a tattoo there. Bluebells with ivy, curving across the bottom of her spine. “Jess,” Dean whispers, and Sam must hear because he roars and pounds away at the glass with renewed vigor.

“Jess?” Castiel asks quietly, looking up at Dean with concern. Ashamed, Dean meets his gaze with sorrowful eyes.

“This is Sam’s fiancé,” Dean explains. “I didn’t know. I thought she was already dead the night I—” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “I didn’t know, but I should have.” He turns his attention towards Sam, and puts a hand up on his own side of the glass. “Sammy,” Dean pleads. “Sam, I’m so goddamn sorry. But Sam, you gotta listen to me, man. You gotta let me help you. Sam, I _cured_ her, look, see? She’s gonna be okay. And I can help you too, you just gotta _let me._ ” Stepping back, Dean points to the monitors, to Jess’ returning human-like color and normal breathing. 

It doesn’t help. If anything, Dean’s words and his demonstration only make Sam angrier. He thrashes and bellows and the glass creaks and splinters further. Dean’s not an idiot, the time he has left for reasoning and bargaining is limited. It’s not a question of _if_ Sam will get through the last barrier, but _when._

“Alright,” Dean says weakly. “Alright, I—” With a start, he looks back at Cas, and then over at Sam, and then he just… gets it. He knows what Sam wants, what he has to do. What _he_ would want in the reverse scenario, if he were on one side of the glass and Cas was on the other. Once again, Dean got them into this mess and it’s up to him to fix it. There’s only one way to end this, to _maybe_ have a shot at getting Cas out of here alive.

With a heavy swallow that hurts to push past the lump in his throat, Dean knocks on the glass, attempting to steal his brother’s rapt attention away from Jess. “I’ll turn her back,” he yells and Sam pauses, eventually continuing his snarling and snapping at Dean but ceasing his assault on the glass. At the far end of the room, several Darkseekers creep forward menacingly, teeth bared as they form a defensive semi-circle at Sam’s back. Behind them, flames have started eating away at the walls, and Dean just thanks his lucky stars that the fire isn’t fast-moving, that the concrete foundations of the house are slowing it down. 

A barking growl from Sam draws Dean’s attention back and he motions between Jess and his brother. “Jess,” he says. “This is Jess. You want her back, don’t you? You want her… You want her to be like you again.” Sam hisses and shows his teeth, but he doesn’t resume trying to smash through the wall. The pronounced veins on Sam’s face bulge as he hits the glass hard, just once. It’s not a threat, it’s an affirmation.

Dean turns to Castiel, pressing the last vial of blood into his beautiful, capable hands and holding them tight between his own. “Open the door,” he says, and Castiel’s eyes go wide.

“Dean—” 

“Open the door and then lock it behind me. You and Sam—” Dean starts but then has to stop, his words catching and tripping in his throat. Licking his lips, Dean focuses on staring at his and Castiel’s intertwined fingers, unable to stop dwelling on the fact that it’s probably the last time he’ll ever get to touch him. “This is your best shot,” Dean continues hoarsely. “I knew it might come to this, Cas. I’ve always known. You—you have to live. You take that cure, you get it to the colony. Save the world. Sam’s my responsibility, I’ve gotta—” Dean shakes his head and breaks away from Cas before he really loses it.

Kneeling down, he hugs his dog tightly around the neck, ignoring him when he whines pitifully. “Take care of him,” Dean whispers in his ear. “You take care of each other, you hear me?” 

By the time he’s risen to standing again, the tears are falling openly down Castiel’s face, but he doesn’t try to argue or block Dean’s way. Outside the cage, Sam snarls impatiently and Dean nods, kicking the brake on the exam table loose as Castiel releases the deadbolt on the door. 

“I’m going to fix her,” Dean calls out to Sam. “But I have to—” He gestures across the room towards where he keeps preloaded syringes with KV inside them. “I need something.” Sam growls but steps back minutely from the door, eyeing Dean suspiciously all the while. The rest of the Darkseekers in the room aren’t so easy to win over, snarling and hissing in the background and Dean wonders if he’ll even live to un-cure Jess. They all look _hungry,_ and with the scarcity of food in the city these days, Dean knows that they are. One snap of _any_ of those jaws and that’s it, he’s toast. 

As the glass opens courtesy of Castiel, a wave of heat hits Dean square in the face and he flinches but pushes onward. Wheeling the exam table out into the main lab, the Darkseekers close ranks. Dean stands his ground despite the drooling and gnashing of teeth right in front of him, but Sam growls and and they back off, at least temporarily. 

As he steps away from the table to head towards his stockpile of KV, everything inside Dean screams at him to turn around and look at Castiel one last time. He _can’t_ , though, he can’t. He hears the deadbolt turn again and feels relieved that in that, at least, Castiel listened. He and Sam are as safe as they’re going to get, and Dean can do this one thing for them.

So he can’t turn back, he can’t look. He knows full well that he might never go on if he does. Instead, Dean gathers himself, takes a deep breath, and steps right in between two ravenous Darkseekers who are eyeing him up like he’s a perfectly cooked steak. Without fear, because what the hell does Dean have left to lose? He moves between them.

Their breath is rancid as it ghosts across his face, hot and moist on his neck as they growl and _barely_ resist ripping his throat out. Dean’s fingers close around the drawer’s handle, pulling it open to extract a KV dose syringe as his eyes slipped closed. The Darkseeker to his right’s jaw widens, Dean can _hear it,_ and _oh fuck,_ this is it. A string of drool releases from the thing’s lip and lands hot and disgusting on Dean’s shoulder.

But _just_ as Dean’s bracing for the end, Sam howls and both of the Darkseekers crowding Dean abruptly retreat, though their grumbling noises of protest indicate clearly that they’re pissed about it. 

After that, the others stay back, giving him room to work. Dean makes his way to Jessica’s side without incident and holds the syringe out for Sam too see. One more time, he points to the monitors and to Jess, pleading for Sam to understand. “Just _look,_ Sammy,” he tries. “I did it. I _fixed_ her. She’s going to be human again, she’ll be okay! You can be okay too, I can fix you. You can be together, I—” 

But Sam cuts him off with a furious snarl, snapping his jaws in Dean’s face and slamming his hands angrily against the exam table. “Jesus Christ,” Dean says lowly. “Alright. Okay.” Without further hesitation, he cuts off both the dilaudid drip and the temperature-cooling saline infusion. “Sorry, Jess,” he whispers, before uncapping the syringe and plunging it into her thigh, depressing the plunger swiftly. 

When the reaction isn’t instantaneous, a threatening rumble builds in the back of Sam’s throat, but Dean holds up a hand, knowing that it’s just a matter of time. Like clockwork, the monitors start to beep and alarm.

The first thing to change is Jess’ temperature. Nothing but Krippin Virus could reverse medically-induced hypothermia this quickly, and Dean can see the numbers rising in his head without looking. 107… 109. Likewise, her breathing becomes shallow and rapid, her heartbeat escalating to a rate so fast Dean can barely count it with his fingers pressed against her wrist. He chokes up a little, feeling like the biggest goddamn failure on the planet.

But then Jess gasps, deep and long, her ribcage inflating and her eyes fluttering open. She moans and Sam moans longingly in return, stepping forward to rip her restraints away as if they’re nothing more than one-ply tissue paper. As soon as she’s free, Jess curls into Sam’s chest automatically and Sam scoops her up, holding her close and nuzzling at her face and head. The _sounds_ he’s making, they’re so desperate and relieved. 

Despite himself, and despite the situation, Dean’s in absolute awe. 

Everything he thought he knew, everything he’s ever assumed about the Darkseekers and their lack of capacity for intelligent thought, for _emotion—_ it was all wrong. Just watching Sam and Jess together, Sam and Jess who _clearly_ know each other, who _clearly_ love and need each other, it’s mind-blowing. When Sam looks up again, his expression is still angry but no longer like he’s on the verge of unhinging his jaw and swallowing Dean whole. With that, the last piece of the puzzle slots into place.

“You came here… for her,” Dean says, incredulous, and Sam just grunts, tightening his grip around Jess, who’s tightly burrowed into his neck. “Sam,” Dean tries again. “Do you… Do you know who I am, man?” 

There’s a long, painful second where Dean thinks he’s wrong, where the heat of the flames and the thickness of the air might be making him crazy, making him delusional. But then, Sam’s head jerks up from where he’s been staring at Jess and he looks Dean straight in the eye. At the same time, the other Darkseekers move on him, claws up and expressions hungry, intent obvious. 

Dean glances between each of them, preparing to fight, but Sam snarls loudly before they can get even a foot closer. Two of them shriek back at him, apparently challenging his authority, but Sam’s next roar is loud and powerful enough to shake the whole house. In response, the other Darkseekers recoil, scampering off and climbing out through the hole in the far wall without so much as another peep. 

Now they’re alone, and Sam looks back at Dean with a pointed gaze. 

“You did that for me,” Dean says slowly and Sam grunts, backing up towards the stairs with Jess still in his arms. “Sam,” Dean calls after him as he climbs the banister to reach the exit hole. “Sammy, please.” Dean reaches out and he knows his face is wet, knows that he sounds pathetic, but this is _Sam,_ this is his _brother._ This is what all of this has been about, what his whole miserable existence has been working towards. “Sam, don’t—Don’t go. I still need you, man.”

But Sam doesn’t want to be cured. He doesn’t want help and he doesn’t want Dean. He has a new family now, that much is clear. Whatever he is, whatever— _whoever—_ he’s become, he’s grown past Dean. And maybe that’s not for Dean to understand, much as he may want to. Still, Dean’s eyes stay locked on his brother as he hovers there, just out of reach. For his part, Sam lingers just inside the destroyed wall, regarding Dean carefully. In that moment, his face changes, softens, and he’s truly _Sam_ again, just for a minute. 

As Dean watches, Sam lets one hand drop from Jess’ back and raises it in Dean’s direction, holding it there in a stilted wave, and Dean gasps. “Sam,” he cries, forlorn and hopeful, but that’s all he gets. In the very next instant, Sam is gone. 

Dean sinks to his knees on the hard, ashy floor, and lets the tears come. 


	9. Epilogue

_Six Months Later_

In his darkest days, Dean always assumed he’d die in Manhattan. Best case scenario, he’d kick it of old age or maybe loneliness in his own bed in that same house in Washington Square. More likely, though, he’d slip up somewhere, somehow, and a Darkseeker would take him out. 

Perhaps while he was hunting with Sam, or maybe long after Sam was gone, some night he forgot scent killer or improperly secured a window. Or hell, maybe he’d get pneumonia, the kind that came with a raging fever and needed IV antibiotics and the kind of medical support only found in nonexistent ICUs to recover from. One day he’d be fine and the next, _poof,_ no more Dr. Dean Winchester. 

Very infrequently did Dean ever daydream about actually finding a cure, or what it might be like if and when he did. For how fixated he was on doing so, he rarely allowed himself to dwell on fantasies that only made success feel further out of reach. The scarce few times that he _had_ dreamt, though, his thoughts were always focused on his brother. What finding a cure would mean for _Sam._ How sussing out a way to reverse the effects of the virus would bring Dean’s brother back to him, and how Dean would spend the rest of his life making it up to him. 

He wasn’t ready. 

In his wildest imaginings, Dean never thought he’d find himself _here,_ with a working cure in hand and no interested parties to take it. Similarly, he never in a million years thought he’d willingly leave New York (or leave his brother behind at all). Never mind that he’d do so in the name of following a man that by all rights he should feel like he barely knew, to trek several states away in search of a _theoretical_ survivors’ colony that Dean wasn’t even convinced existed. 

But that’s what he did. 

And here he is.

Dean still has nightmares about everything that’s happened, sometimes. Wakes up in a heavy sweat in an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar bed, screaming about Sam and even Ben and Lisa and Benny, ranting about how he needs to go back, how he has to save them, _has to save them all_. Especially Sam, _oh god, Sam_. 

On those nights, even with Castiel’s arms wrapped around him securely, steady fingers combing reassuringly through Dean’s hair, sometimes it takes hours for Dean to come back down. To remember where he is and what they’re doing there. When he finally does, he’s always embarrassed, always apologetic, and Castiel always refuses to hear any of it. 

Cas understands. He’s got ghosts and nightmares of his own. 

In the daylight, things never seem so bad. With the sun shining brightly overhead, it all feels that much clearer. The Darkseekers were never what Dean (and originally, his entire team) had assumed they were. Perhaps they’re no longer people, not in the strictest sense, but they _are something._ Sentient creatures that are capable of complex thought and the same range of human emotions, perhaps even deeper, if what Dean witnessed firsthand is anything to go by. 

However terrifying, sentient creatures deserve respect, even if they’re unable to co-exist with humans. With some time and distance, Dean’s now able to look back on what went down that night in his burning lab with clarity. Sam understood what he was offering, Dean’s sure of it. He understood, and he didn’t want to be cured, didn’t want to be _fixed._ As hard a truth as that is for Dean to accept, he’s always been a logical man who values scientific certainties and objective facts for what they are.

In this case, embracing those truths means giving up on blindly administering a cure that may not be wanted by its recipients. _Consent_ is the fundamental building block for any scientific or medical intervention applied to humans, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t extend to the Infected, now that Dean knows what he knows. He’s spent years experimenting—hell, what amounts to _practicing—_ on creatures that he assumed weren’t capable of higher, intelligent thought. Dean’s responsible for taking their freedom, their _lives_ because _he_ assumed he knew better, assumed _humanity_ was superior. That the importance and value of a cure was self-evident. That if those creatures he captured _could_ consent, of course they would.

It makes Dean sick to look back on his choices, now. He thinks about the wall in his now-destroyed basement, covered in pictures of every Infected that died in his lab, and his gut twists. 

_They wouldn’t have chosen it. They just want to be free._

The survivors’ colony is safe. It’s over a mile wide and a half mile deep, walled on four sides with a river running clean through the center, right under the walls. The setting chosen for the colony’s location is rural enough that the Darkseeker presence was low to begin with, and it’s practically non-existent these days. The colony has a research team that says most of the Infected migrated towards larger cities, from what the monitoring they were able to do revealed. 

Regardless, all of that amounts to a life that’s much closer to _Before_ than Dean could ever have dreamed possible, even if he’d allowed himself to dream.

People go out at night, here. The center of the colony is a town square, also from _Before,_ and it’s got two restaurants in it, and a bar. Some nights the bar has live music and dancing. Sure, there are guards that patrol the walls, and exterior defense systems that put Dean’s old ones to unbelievable shame. But below the observation turrets, couples walk hand in hand at dusk without fear. Kids run and screech and play ball in the open fields long after sunset. 

Life goes on, despite all the evidence Dean has to the contrary. 

It’s not an easy adjustment for him, but he’s getting there, thanks in no small part to Castiel. 

As he leans against the wooden frame of their open front door and watches Castiel now, Dean thinks back, and remembers. 

***

_Six Months Earlier_

The drive is long, and they do it in one shot, by Dean’s insistence. As such, he’s got a lot of time to dwell inside his own mind and find new things to worry about. When he and Castiel first arrive at the colony’s gates, Dean’s basically been working himself up for hours. As far as he’s concerned, there are so many different things to be concerned about, he couldn’t begin to voice them all if he tried. From whether he’s doing the right thing in letting Sammy go, to wondering if the bond he and Cas share might simply be a product of circumstance, to whether the colony will even trust them enough to let them in. 

And then, if they _do_ let them in _,_ Dean’s also worked up about the idea that the people of the colony will _know_ him, know who he is and what he did to the world. And if they do recognize him, will they _blame_ him? If they don’t know him, will they shun and cast him out once they learn the truth? 

That possibility might be the worst of them all. Worst, because it goes hand-in-hand with the fear that if it comes to that, Castiel won’t side with him. That Dean will end up on the wrong side of the gates as they slam shut, closing him out while Castiel remains safe within the sanctuary walls.

That fear, at least, turns out to be wholly unfounded in every possible way, so much so that even Dean has to wonder what he was thinking, doubting Cas that way. Though he never says so, Castiel must have been harboring some of the same worries, because when Dean identifies himself to the paramilitary guards at the gates, Castiel stiffens and turns into him protectively, a hand bracing against his lower back. That, at least, answers that question. 

But there’s no time for relief, because the guards _do_ recognize him, some of them being actual former military and Dean being, well, Lieutenant Colonel Dr. Dean Winchester. Without hesitation, the guards salute, addressing Dean by both his name and his rank without prompting. It’s jarring, if he’s being honest, hearing himself referred to as _Lieutenant Colonel_ once again. It’s jarring to see other humans at all. 

Beyond the gates, the residents of the colony, while both curious and excited to meet them, aren’t nearly as difficult to win over as Dean feared. In fact, they welcome both Dean and Castiel with open arms and so much hope that it’s somewhat overwhelming. It’s clear that they’re all wondering where Dean stands on developing a cure, but it takes Dean over a month before he works up the guts to even broach the topic honestly with the community’s leadership. 

That first night, he doesn’t say a word about it either way.

Also on that first night, the colony’s mayor tries to take them on a welcome tour of the walled-in compound. Unfortunately, Dean’s nerves manage to blow that kind gesture to shit before they’ve barely stepped inside the heavy, thrice-barred doors. 

The problem is, Dean and Castiel drove up and parked in front of the settlement around five-thirty in the evening, with Dean’s watch beeping its first warning just as the gates were opening to admit the two of them, Sam the dog, and Baby. Now, Dean can’t seem to stop focusing on all of the people milling about, not one of them showing any sign of concern at the approaching dark. As the mayor introduces herself, her voice sounds like static in Dean’s ears. He’s tense, his eyes busy darting around, his brain registering nothing but vulnerable _humans_ who are about to become meals for monsters. 

It’s illogical and Dean knows it. Cognitively, he can understand that if there were danger, people would be reacting. The fact that they aren’t suggests that the rules are different inside this space, or at least, the people here believe that they are. That much manages to penetrate past Dean’s emotional, fear-based panic. That rationale at _least_ stops him from running around like a maniac, picking up anyone small enough to carry and attempting to shove them inside the nearest four-walled safehouse. 

Thank fuck for that, because even well-intentioned hostage-taking sure sounds like a good way to be labeled a liability and kicked out of the colony before they even get a chance to unload the car. Everything else aside, the dark means one thing for sure: it is now safer inside the walls than out.

Still, years of abiding by the same strict survival tactics have etched their scars so deeply into Dean’s psyche that it ain’t as simple as flipping a switch and doing something else. Ain’t as easy as, “you don’t have to do that anymore, Dean,” no matter how many times the sharp but kind Mayor insists it’s true. 

It’s embarrassing, and Dean knows he’s flushing red, unable to stop openly gawking. It’s just that, these _people—_ they’re all simply going about their damn business like the dark is no more threatening than a soft blanket thrown over their shoulders as the day turns into night. No matter how long he stares, no matter what Dean expects, no one abandons what they’re doing to head for their homes. No one hurries their loved ones along with talk of showering and barricading themselves inside. No one sprays scent killer or silences watch alarms or checks their vehicles one last time because they _know_ they won’t be able to come back out later. 

No one reacts _at all._

The sight unsettles Dean so badly that despite his best efforts, he nearly has a nervous breakdown right there in the secured parking lot.

Adjusting. Dean’s working on it. It’s just not as friggin’ simple as all that.

With Dean culminating their humiliating first meeting by turning into a shaking mess and burying his face in Castiel’s neck, the mayor thankfully doesn’t hold it against him. In fact, she carries on talking as if there’s nothing wrong with Dean at all, and the amount of relief Dean feels at that can’t be effectively reduced into words. 

So while Dean gathers his wits, the Mayor goes on listing inane but interesting details about the little settlement, and Castiel hums his acknowledgement while soothing Dean with his hands at the same time. Eventually, Dean’s able to surface again, shame-faced and considering just throwing himself to any Darkseekers who might be on the other side of the wall, because _fuck,_ these people are _definitely_ going to think some type of way about him after all that.

Except, they don’t. The guards have long gone back to patrolling the wall, and the colony members who had walked up in interest when Dean first pulled Baby inside the gates have dispersed. It’s just him, Castiel, and the Mayor now, and she seems doggedly determined to go on pretending nothing out of the ordinary just happened. Dean takes a deep breath, wipes his face, and nods her his thanks. 

In turn, the Mayor shakes her head, waving him off. Now that Dean has some semblance of control of his mind and body back, he’s able to register that the Mayor is in fact, a wonderfully warm woman named Jody Mills who lost her husband and son years ago to the virus. She reassures both Dean and Castiel that she understands, and acknowledges Dean’s breakdown _only_ by saying that he’s far from the first. 

According to Jody, it took almost a year to build this settlement from the ground up, and survivors have been trickling in ever since. That’s meant all sorts of people in all sorts of varying conditions, many of whom reacted just the same as Dean when they first arrived, or worse. 

“Humans aren’t meant to live in isolation,” Jody says, a note of sadness in her voice. “Forced into fight-or-flight mode for endless, desperate periods of time, just so we could make it through another day. And for what? The kind of living most of us were doing before this place? Well, you’d be hard-pressed to describe it as anything worthwhile. Certainly not lives we’d choose.” Dean wholeheartedly agrees with her there, and he tightens his hold on Castiel’s hand in response. Unsurprisingly, Castiel squeezes back and Dean knows he remembers that miserable existence all too well. 

“You take all the time and space you need,” Jody reiterates as she tries to reassure Dean that he’s safe by walking him and Castiel through some of the basic security measures the compound has in place. It works, at least well enough for Dean to register that the place actually does seem _extremely_ secure and well-prepared for all sorts of threats.

Once they’ve been shown the rotating patrols, the UV lights built into the walls, the flamethrowers and grenade launchers and various other firepower devices all ready for action _and_ the exterior of the armory, Dean does relax incrementally. Still, Jody’s an intuitive woman, and she’s smart enough to read the room. Without fanfare, she declares that she’s postponing the remainder of their tour until the next morning. 

“You two look bushed,” she says bluntly. “And we’ve got a _lot_ to see. Town Square, the growing fields, all the animals, the power grid. Heck, my wife will appreciate the advance notice, anyway. If I tell her we recruited some new folk tonight, she’ll have a fresh batch of brownies and a cherry pie whipped up by the time you two wake up tomorrow morning.”

“Pie?” Dean asks hopefully, perking up honestly for the first time.

“Oh, yeah,” Jody replies with a grin. “You betcha.” She grimaces and then shrugs. “Hear that? That’s her Minnesota rubbing off on me. Anyway, let’s find you two a house and get you settled in.” 

Stunned that Jody is letting them off the hook (and letting them _stay)_ that easily, Dean doesn’t have it in him to ask why. He assumes it has something to do with seeing the best in people, considering how few _people_ there are left. Or maybe it’s who Dean is, what Jody thinks he can still offer the world. That’s equally, if not more likely. Whatever, no time like the impending night to not kick a gift horse in the mouth. The sooner he and Cas are tucked safely inside a building at this point, the better. Dean will worry about the rest tomorrow. 

Aside from wishing for a secure indoor space in which to bunker down, Dean just _hopes,_ desperately, that he and Cas won’t have to share an actual room. This whole thing has been humiliating enough without needing to worry about homophobes or just people in general staring at him while he sleeps curled up with Cas. _Hell no_ to that. 

But when they all load up into Baby and set off, Dean can’t help but notice that (so far) there aren’t really any signs of apartment buildings or tents or anything that would potentially allow lots of people to maintain individual living spaces. 

As Jody directs them past the town square and through some of the flourishing fields of crops, Dean has to fight harder and harder not to worry about the kind of accommodations they might be driving towards. Despite his best efforts, during the ride west through the compound, he certainly has some thoughts. Tents are still a solid bet, or maybe yurts. Giant log cabins with narrow cots covering every free inch of floor space. Shared homes repurposed from the farmhouses that undoubtedly stood here _Before_ would be a _best_ case scenario _._

It’s not long before Dean’s all but talked himself out of so much as daring to dream that he and Castiel might be lucky enough to be granted something so luxurious as a private room. It’s not a happy thought, but Dean figures it better to resign and cope with the worst-case scenario ahead of time.

So to say that he’s shocked when Jody directs them past the orchards and the vegetable fields to where seemingly endless rows of adorable, tiny houses come into view, well, that would be a _hell_ of an understatement. 

“Really?” Dean asks in disbelief and Jody shrugs. 

“What? You got something against the Tiny House Movement? You know, other than the fact that it’s kind of… over.” She snorts and Dean cracks a smile. Jody is quickly growing on him, and Dean finds it no surprise that she was named Mayor. Empathetic and understanding, but cool enough to appreciate dark humor—he likes this chick already. “The whole compound is only a couple hundred people total right now, but its capacity sits at well over a thousand. Most of these are empty. Guess we were a little over zealous with the construction,” Jody admits from where she’s wedged between a stack of their belongings and a panting Sam in the back seat. “Or, you know, maybe we’re hopeful.” She shrugs.

“Hopeful is good,” Castiel says softly and Dean reaches over to take his hand again with a small smile. 

“So, you guys prefer something with neighbors, or something a little more out of the way?” Jody asks.

“Out of the way,” Castiel and Dean answer together, without hesitation. Having people around again is a good thing, and if even half of them are remotely as cool as Jody then Dean knows they have a shot at being happy here. All the same, Dean’s been alone for a long time, and he’s self-aware enough to know that he still needs his space. Apparently, Castiel knows it too. 

“Please,” Castiel adds as an afterthought, but Jody just laughs.

“I think you boys are gonna fit in here just fine. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating how fucked up we all are, seriously. Nobody’s gonna judge you. Take a left up here.” She points to a gravel path that veers between the rows of tiny houses like a cross-street, continuing until it stops within a hundred yards of the exterior wall. At the very end, there’s a little two-story house with a tiny front porch and a railing just visible over the edge of the roof that suggests it has a walk-out balcony. 

Dean whistles in appreciation; this house seems nicer than the others they’ve passed, and those haven’t been anything to scoff at. 

“All the tiny houses are different,” Jody explains. “Nabbed most of ‘em from a prefab construction company’s warehouse. Can’t explain it, but this one just feels like it might be right for you two.” 

As they exit the car, Dean can’t help but agree. It’s nothing like the home he left behind in the city, even before it was a smoking pile of rubble. This house has a cottage-y feel, with bright white paint, dark blue shutters, and a matching blue door. It’s small but welcoming, and it feels like somewhere he could be happy. Maybe part of that is because his expectations were so low, but the look on Castiel’s face says he’s feeling the same, and right now, that’s more than enough for Dean. 

“Power’s wired underground, I’ll show you the plant tomorrow, like I said. Water’s a little more primitive, you gotta fill your own tank, but the heaters are mint and the sewer’s hooked up. What else? You guys can do what you want with the place,” Jody continues, tapping a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “Change the paint or plant a garden. I dunno how handy y’all are, but if there’s a major job you need done and you don’t have the skills, one of us does, so don’t be shy. Speaking of which, after your tour tomorrow, we’ll talk jobs. Everyone’s got one,” she says brightly.

“I’m a medical doctor,” Castiel tells her and Jody’s face _lights_ the fuck up, so much so that Dean can’t help but grin back. He resists the urge to kiss Castiel just because he’s so damn proud, but only barely.

“Hot damn,” Jody says excitedly, oblivious to Dean’s internal thoughts. “Most we’ve got is a former ICU nurse, a vet tech, and a dentist. Man, are they gonna be relieved to meet you!” 

“I’m pleased to help,” Castiel says sincerely and Jody chucks him on the shoulder hard enough that he stumbles a little. 

“Alright, well, I’m gonna get out of your hair, let you two look around and decompress. I’ll be back tomorrow morning with baked good bribes and a blonde that doesn’t have an off switch, so enjoy your peace and quiet while you’ve got it. Welcome to Anytown, boys.” Jody tips the brim of a hat she isn’t actually wearing and wanders off down the gravel path as Dean and Castiel watch. 

“Hey,” Dean calls after her. “Are there—I mean, I know you went through the defense systems and the patrols, but are there any rules we should know about? A curfew? Lights out after a certain time?” He pauses uncertainly.

“Nope,” Jody calls back. “Only rule you gotta worry about is giving back as much as you take. Beyond that, we’re free here. And we’re safe. I know that’s hard to remember, harder than anything else any of us have been through, maybe. But I promise, I wouldn’t steer you wrong.” With a wink and a wave, she’s off and Dean’s once again left speechless and stunned.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs to Castiel, watching Jody’s form fade into the growing dusk. As she turns the corner at the cross-street, the streetlights around them pop on one by one and Dean’s chest feels oddly tight.

“I know,” Castiel replies, wrapping an arm around Dean and squeezing his shoulder. “Let’s bring our things inside and see what we’re working with. There’s no guarantee the inside is as nice as the out, but hopefully there’s at least a mattress, or something that will function as one.” 

There is a mattress. In fact, there’s an entire queen-sized bed nestled in the second-floor loft, complete with a beautiful hand-made wooden frame. And in the generous closet that’s built into the wall, there are shelves with folded towels and two sheet sets from Target, still in their brand-new cloth sacks the store used to sell them in. Fingering them in a bit of awed shock, Dean touches the red and white bullseye and thinks about walking the aisles of a Target, back when they existed, back when the world was safe and real.

 _This community is no friggin’ joke,_ Dean decides, and he’s so overwhelmed that he’s not quite sure how to feel about that. 

Just for something to do that feels _normal_ , he pulls out one of the sheet sets and goes about making up the bed. Folding the corners of the flat sheet neatly underneath like he always used to do at home, Dean finds the motions of the familiar routine reassuring. The smell of the linens is a bit musty but clean, and honestly, Dean can’t help but flash back on how he expected so much less. 

As soon as he’s finished, Sam jumps up on the bed, circling once before laying down and closing his eyes like he’s perfectly at home here, not a care in the world. Watching from across the room, Dean can’t help but feel just a touch envious. He leaves Sam behind to go check on Castiel, holding the surprisingly sturdy railing as he strides down the wooden steps back to the first floor. He would have thought stairs would take up an excessive amount of room in a space like this, but these are flush up against one of the side walls and hardly intrusive. 

As Dean steps down into the small living room, Castiel bustles through the front door with what has to be the last box and suitcase full of their things. The rest are already cluttering up the floor, but it’s only maybe six or seven assorted pieces of makeshift luggage total. After the fire and the Darkseekers’ destruction, there wasn’t much left to salvage. 

“This is out of this world,” Castiel remarks, looking around as he drops the suitcase and sets the box down. “There’s a _couch,_ Dean. And coffee table, and a _TV.”_

“With a DVD player,” Dean agrees. “I hope they have a rental store.” 

Castiel pauses to raise an eyebrow at him but ultimately lets it go. “Did you see the kitchen? Microwave, stove, oven, sink, refrigerator and freezer. Dean,” he says, incredulous. “This is a _real_ house. And it’s all ours. I’m—it’s hard to wrap my head around.” 

“I can’t believe it either,” Dean says, sinking into the surprisingly comfortable couch. The windows are still open around him, and their glass takes up a not-small amount of wall space. It’s nearly full dark outside now, and despite Jody’s assurances, Dean’s just not feeling calm. His fingers are practically _itching_ to shutter and bar the windows and doors, but those things don’t exist here. Maybe he’ll build them, just for his own sanity. Routines like he’s had for the past three years, that he’s _depended_ on for survival—well, it might be time to face that they just aren’t that easy to give up. And Jody _did_ say they could do what they wanted with the house.

“I know,” Castiel says, reading his mind like he always does as he drops down onto one knee, facing Dean on the couch. “I’d suggest checking out the roof, but perhaps we’ll save that for a less anxiety-inducing time of day.” 

Dean’s hands pluck restlessly at the fabric of the couch, and he can’t even bring himself to laugh. His every instinct is telling him to _run,_ to get somewhere safe, to cocoon himself away where nothing can sneak up on him and rip his throat out. No matter how deeply Dean breathes or how hard he works to overcome the idea that _dark_ equals danger, his mind refuses to relent. 

Without comment, Castiel observes him quietly before cupping his face and pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead. Still silent, he pushes to standing and begins poking around the edge of the picture window behind their heads. Dean watches, noting how the glass is framed by two heavy wooden shutters on iron rods. It’s an attractive set up, but they look more like a “rustic aesthetic” decoration Lisa would have picked up at a Pottery Barn than anything else. 

“Aha,” Castiel mutters, releasing a switch at the top of the frame that allows the shutters to slide closed. There’s a lock in the middle, and bolting it across essentially seals off the entire window. 

“Oh,” Dean says cautiously, sitting up straight. “Well that’s… better.” Castiel doesn’t answer, just sets about checking all of the other windows in the house and deploying the switches built into each one that allow for the shutters to close tight. The visual barrier really is helpful, and suddenly Dean realizes why Jody put them in this house. “Does the door bar?” he asks, and Castiel moves over to it, sliding a giant deadbolt from the door to the frame as soon as he locates it. When it locks into place, Dean finds himself finally breathing a sigh of relief.

With those changes, the cottage starts to feel cozy instead of terrifying, and Dean can work with this. He vows to thank Jody in the morning, and offer to do anything he can to earn his keep in the town. For now though, he’s ready for a different sort of comfort. He grabs one of the suitcases that he knows contains a blanket and then takes Castiel’s hand. 

“You ready to see the bedroom?” he asks, with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Clearly relieved, Castiel smiles back and lets himself be pulled across the floor and up the stairs. 

“Lead the way.” 

***

_Present Day_

Things (slowly) become easier and easier as time goes on. 

Eventually, Dean even starts to venture out after dark, just like everyone else in the colony. And sometimes, on really good days, he forgets to close and bar the shutters. Most importantly, six months into their stay at the colony and the dark rarely produces the sort of anxiety Dean felt wholly incapacitated by on that first night. 

But Dean’s nights are only half the story.

Initially, when he’d met with Jody on their first full day in Anytown, Dean had fed her the lie that he’d suspended his search for a cure. That he no longer believed one was possible, and that his change of heart was the driving force that led him and Castiel to leave the city and search for the colony. It’s not _entirely_ untrue, it’s just missing some very key details. 

The problem for Dean (and the reason he isn’t honest), is that while Jody and the entire town _seem_ welcoming, Dean knows full well that their faith in him is at _least_ partially based on what they believe he can do for humanity—for _them._ As such, he’s reluctant as hell to disclose the way his own feelings have shifted in regards to curing Krippin Virus at all. 

The fact is, KV devastated the entire world. It took _everything_ from everyone, even those who managed to survive long enough to find themselves here, now. Nothing about this isn’t personal, and Dean has to operate under the assumption that _everyone_ feels the same. Volatile, emotional reactions to learning that the only man alive who _could_ cure the virus is suddenly refusing to do so? Frankly, that would be far more expected than not. 

In truth, Dean has a brand new nightmare haunting his dreams lately. Visions of himself being carted away, chained to a lab table in the basement of Anytown’s Town Hall where he’d be kept prisoner until he changed his mind and got to work again. 

Or worse than that, the one where the town uses _Cas_ as a weapon against him. Where Dean has to watch as they torture him, starve him, throw him to the wolves outside the gates unless Dean does whatever they demand he do. Until he agrees to mass produce the cure and develop a way to administer it to everyone—willing or not. It’s an ethics violation of the _highest_ order and the worst part is, Dean knows he’d do it in a heartbeat if the choice came down to violating what’s left of the world—and _Cas._

But he doesn’t want to, can’t imagine having his hand forced that way. Not after all he’s done and the way his ill-informed actions _still_ keep him up at night, knowing what he knows now. The memory of Sam’s angry face, of Jess’ exhausted, desperate one, the _noises_ the two of them made when they were reunited—It has bile roiling in Dean’s stomach to know that he’d had a hand in hurting them that way, regardless of his intent. _Never again_ isn’t a strong enough sentiment for what he feels about that.

But…

Dean _could_ get back to it, if he wanted to. If he found the right, _ethical_ way to go about any continued research as well as any potential real-world applications of such. Those are huge, Mariana Trench-sized _ifs,_ but ifs they are, nonetheless, because he still has the means. 

Not that Dean is sharing the information with anyone other than Cas, but the blood specimens Dean took from Jess are frozen, sitting in a cryo-locked box in the bottom of Castiel and Dean’s home freezer. Regardless of his own feelings on the matter, Dean just can’t bring himself to throw them away. Not yet. 

Ultimately, he hopes that someday he can figure out a way to give Infected persons a _choice._ In a perfect world, Dean would be able to offer them the option to be cured or to remain as they are. But there are _so_ many logistical stepping stones to getting there that the very concept feels obscenely out of reach.

And thus, he keeps all of those thoughts to himself, for his own safety as well as Castiel’s.

Which is why, on their second day at the colony, Dean tells a white lie. It lands, or at least, Jody seems to believe it. After all, Dr. Dean Winchester and his unparalleled desire to save the world should have no reason not to tell the truth. 

The second thing Dean does is distance himself from that persona altogether. He asks Jody outright if he would be able to sign up to do something completely different for the town than his former life entailed. That strategy is two-fold: it gives the residents of the town less reason to try and discuss _the cure,_ and also? Dean just wants a fuckin’ break. He’s _tired_ of stressing, tired of shouldering the burden of being humanity’s last hope. He still wants to contribute, to be useful and productive, but after everything that went down with Sam, maybe Dean needs a little distance from all of this, too.

Jody ends up being fine with his purported desire to truly start over, which is a relief. At least, she is as long as Dean agrees to help in the lab if Castiel requests it. Apparently, the town doesn’t have anyone else who can do that sort of thing. Just normal stuff though—CBCs and various hormone levels, urinalyses; all the boring, lab tech stuff that Dean could do in his sleep. That’s not a problem, he enjoys helping Cas and he’s genuinely happy to be able to give back in a mundane, safe way. 

For his main job though, Dean flips all the way to the other end of the spectrum from quiet, meticulous lab work. When he sees the opening on Jody’s list, he chooses it immediately; signing his name on the dotted line to become the latest member of Anytown’s highly trained Security Squad. 

When he initially shows interest in that particular position, Jody hesitates. That’s understandable, as far as Dean’s concerned, and it shows good, critical regard for the colony’s safety. He wouldn’t hand over the blueprints detailing the entire compound’s strengths and weaknesses to some stranger, either. But as it turns out, one of the former military guys that now heads up the Squad was deployed with Benny in Fallujah. Small fuckin’ world, considering _how_ damn small the world now is. 

Regardless, the guy apparently knows exactly who Dean is, and he wastes no time in telling Jody so. Vouching for him, really.

For a tense minute, Dean thinks that’s going to backfire on him in a big way, but it works out exactly the opposite. He supposes his former (and now, apparently reinstated) _Lieutenant Colonel_ rank doesn’t hurt Jody’s opinion, either. Whatever it is that sways her, Dean guesses it doesn’t matter in the end. He’s admitted to the Squad without any further fuss.

That’s when the real work begins. 

Just as Dean suspected ( _hoped),_ there’s a lot more to being a part of the colony’s security detail than just walking along the top of the wall, holding a rifle and looking sexy. The job is both excruciatingly hands-on as well as mentally engaging, and Dean enjoys throwing himself into the training and the new routines. Learning how to be practically useful to the community in a way that’s both new and extremely familiar to him is satisfying, and Dean works hard to give every piece of it his all. 

For starters, the Squad works out daily alongside any other townspeople who want to join in. A fair number of them, including Cas, show up almost as religiously as the Squad members themselves. Dean supposes it makes sense. He’s personally always subscribed to the belief that the first step in surviving an apocalypse is staying in shape. 

The group runs both sprints and long-range around the perimeter of the wall, they do yoga on the open, landscaped stretches of grass, they work obstacle courses and they build muscle. One of the workouts that quickly becomes a favorite for Dean involves a giant tire. First they’re expected to toss and flip the thing, but then they get to beat the shit out of it with sledgehammers. Not only is it fun as hell to do himself, it’s even _more_ awesome to stand back and watch Cas try. Sure, Dean starts seeing the results in his own arms and back pretty quickly, but he _also_ sees the results in _Cas,_ and there is not a single part of Dean that’s unhappy with that. 

Not even when Cas shows off by bench-pressing him in front of all the guys. _So_ fuckin’ worth it.

In fact, he’d thank Jody for the (unneeded but still appreciated) boost his sex life gets from the training, but that would probably be inappropriate. Maybe. Jody’s pretty cool, and Dean’s relatively sure she could go toe-to-toe with him and that tire. 

So he and Cas are assimilating well. There are plenty of aspects of his Security Squad position that Castiel isn’t a part of, and likewise, Castiel holds office hours in town nearly every day without Dean. Of course, Dean often pops in to the Med Center either before or after his rotating shifts to cover any lab work, and if Dean’s scheduled for night watch, Castiel frequently brings him dinner and coffee. It’s a hell of a life, and Dean hardly has time to feel guilty for being so damn happy.

There’s another part of his job that Dean has come to look forward to as well. Regular trainings on both weapons and hand-to-hand combat are held several times a week, and on the second Friday of every month, there are sparring events in the Quad. Those friendly matches are extremely popular for both the participants and the residents who come to watch, and Dean is no exception. He tells Cas excitedly that it’s like having WWE back; an apocalyptic Fight Night, except minus the pay-per-view and the staged stunts. 

From the very first night he steps into the makeshift ring to a cheering crowd, Dean instantly becomes a fan favorite. That may or may not have something to do with the fact that he’s been practicing during his down time with Cas in the Quad. Sometimes with knives or pike poles and safety padding, sometimes with bare chests and shoeless feet, throwing nothing but their fists. No matter what incarnation their fights take, the two of them always seem to draw a crowd when they’re sparring. Knowing that, Dean supposes it’s not so surprising that he’s gained a few fans.

Also, not for nothing, but Dean’s seen enough training recordings of the two of them going at it to grudgingly understand why people want to watch him, at least, when he’s fighting _Cas._ Well, once he gets his head around _cameras_ being a thing that exist again, anyway. But point being, the first time Dean watched the playback of a practice round with Cas in the ring, he could barely look away (and he definitely couldn’t stand up after, not without embarrassing himself). 

The engaging, magnetic pull that’s always existed between him and Cas in private certainly transfers to the battlefield. It’s in the way they meet each other blow-for-blow, how their eyes lock in challenge, how their bodies _move_ together like they were always meant to be touching. Plus, their natural ability to anticipate and play off of each other’s tactical ebb and flow? Well, that just makes for a hell of a show. 

At the end of the day, all of that amounts to Dean being secure in his choices and settling in to his new life just fine. 

And as far as researching the cure goes? No one brings it up. As time goes on, it sure seems like he’s officially, permanently, off the hook. 

Which makes it that much more brave _and_ that much stupider when Dean decides to let Jody, and subsequently the rest of the community leaders, in on the truth. 

Despite his fears, they take it better than Dean thinks they might’ve if he’d been upfront from the jump, but as he suspected, not everyone agrees with the conclusions he’s arrived at on his own. Thing is (and the reason he brought the topic up at all), Dean’s not sure those _conclusions_ are as solid in his own mind anymore, either. At the very least, he’s interested in having the chance to explore the possibility of finding a way to offer the Infected _choice_. When he explains a little more, tells Jody and the others as much, pretty much everyone softens on any anger and resentment they have brewing. 

After that, a tentative agreement to develop a plan to make Dean’s vision a reality is easily struck. 

With all of the conflicting factors at play, though, it’s probably a good thing that actually forming said plan is much easier said than done.

Months later, Dean and his newly formed team of volunteers are no closer to any actual course of action than they were that night. It’s both relieving and disheartening at the same time, but Dean at least can rest easy knowing that the burden and the fate of humanity’s survival isn’t resting solely on his shoulders anymore. Whatever might come of it all, for once, Dean can say he’s truly doing his best, and that whatever happens, he’s already made peace with it.

Which brings him to the here and now, just waking up as the sun is starting to go down, having napped after a long shift protecting his home and community the night before. The previous evening had been cold and especially dark, but Dean had passed the time easily with a kid name Max who he’s become surprisingly close with. Max has a twin sister, Alicia, who’s infected and still alive out there somewhere, as far as he knows. As such, he and Dean relate to each other on a level few other survivors can. It helps, sometimes, to share stories and fears about their siblings, even if those talks do verge dangerously close to “chick-flick moment” territory. Whatever gets them through the night, though. That’s Dean excuse and he’s sticking to it. 

Unsurprisingly considering the time, he’d awoken in bed alone tonight with Cas nowhere to be seen. After peeing and washing up, Dean had grabbed a mug of coffee from the half-full maker and wandered to peek outside from the shadow of the open front door. 

Which brought him here, leaning on the frame of the doorway to his own little slice of heaven, complete with his very own angel. And it is, really. Heaven. This house, this _place_ as a whole—Against all odds, somehow Dean and Cas have found real safety, security, _hope,_ and every other good thing Dean never dared to dream he might actually have a taste of again. As he sighs contentedly, a warm spring breeze blows in from the south, ruffling his hair. The sky on the horizon darkens slowly, shifting from late-afternoon gold to early-evening pink, the sun still setting on the early side for April. 

On the other side of the little porch railing, Castiel kneels on the ground, oblivious to Dean’s appreciative stares. His hands are buried to the wrists in dirt and his face and clothes are smudged with it, but he looks _happy,_ peaceful. Beside him, Sam soaks up the remainder of the day’s sun, sprawled out on his back with his paws in the air and his tongue hanging out. 

As Dean watches, Castiel gently lifts the last cluster of marigolds out of the planter where he’s been carefully sprouting them and rehomes the brand-new buds into the ground. They should flourish easily in the rich, fertilized soil of the flower beds Dean helped create last weekend, and Dean finds himself looking forward to enjoying the end result.

 _Flowers and a white picket fence,_ he thinks with amusement. _All we need are those Jack Terriers and a couple of his and his SUVs._

It probably goes without saying, but that is also not something Dean ever pictured himself thinking.

With a satisfied, pleased noise escaping his lips, Castiel finishes mounding the soil around the little plant and sits back on his heels, smiling softly. Dean bends down to pick up Cas’ watering can and steps forward to dangle it over the railing within easy reach. With a surprised fluttering of his eyelashes, Castiel takes notice of him for the first time and his smile widens as he stands up, brushing himself off. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says warmly. “I believe I lost track of time out here.” He accepts the offered water and sprinkles a generous amount on all of the newly planted annuals before rounding the steps and setting the can back down on the porch. “Isn’t Mad Hope playing at the bar tonight? I’d hoped you might be up to going.” 

“Mm,” Dean affirms noncommittally. He likes Mad Hope, likes dancing with Cas even more, but Dean’s not yet sure he wants to make any promises about leaving the house tonight. Not for any anxiety-inspired reason, just because washing the dirt off of Cas and then taking him to bed seems so much more appealing. Castiel steps closer, all up in Dean’s space and rubbing dirt off on his own clothes and somehow, Dean doesn’t think he could possibly be any happier. 

“I suppose we could start with a shower and see where the night leads,” Castiel muses, his fingers trailing tantalizingly over the front of Dean’s thin t-shirt and then under his open flannel. It never ceases to astound Dean how Castiel just _gets_ him, how he sees him so fully and never hesitates to show it. 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Cas recognizes that he wants to stay in, that he’s so quick to give up his own desires just to make Dean happy. It makes Dean want to do the exact same in return, and anything else Cas wants. _Anything_ he’d ask for, Dean would give. 

“I’ll take you out, if that’s what you want, angel,” he offers, dipping down to nip at Cas’ ear, maybe the only part of him that’s currently dirt-free. “Just thought we could use some alone time. Busy week, haven’t seen you much.” 

“No reason we can’t do both,” Castiel replies easily, and Dean realizes that it’s true. Thumbing over Castiel’s cheek, he lets his hand drift down to tuck fingers under Cas’ chin and tilt it up so he can kiss him properly. 

He _is_ right, after all. They can do whatever they want. They _can_ have it all. 

It’s strange, Dean thinks, to be so damn happy when the world hasn’t changed at all. It’s still over. His brother is still lost, at least to Dean. And none of that may ever change or get better, that’s just reality. But Sam is good, in his own way. And here, what he and Cas have together, what they’ve _built?_ It’s not nothing. 

In fact, it might be the _only_ thing left that matters, the only light in a sea of pure, unyielding, endless dark.

Love, at the end of the world. 

_Light up the darkness._

And Dean can work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope this wasn't too traumatizing, considering the circumstances?! Or at least, if it was, that it ended optimistic and hopeful. 
> 
> Psst, if you liked this, I have another dystopian Endverse-set fic coming soon (this thing is thick with "Down to Agincourt" inspiration, so if that's something you like...), a fix-it fic for "The End" that ties into s15 pretty nicely AND gives Endverse!dean/cas their happy ending. 
> 
> Don't forget to hit Bees' masterpost and give ALL THE LOVE! Thanks again, y'all.
> 
> Come talk to me on: [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](www.twitter.com/caslostwings)


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